


Oleander Blossoms

by Dearest_Solitude



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Aftercare, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fake Science, Fictional politics, Grooming, Light Somnophilia, Manipulation, Masochism, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pregnancy, Rough Sex, Sadism, Semi-Public Sex, Soul Bond, This was supposed to be pwp but now it’s more like plot w porn, lots of world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dearest_Solitude/pseuds/Dearest_Solitude
Summary: When she woke up in Count Olaf’s house that morning, a hot, itchy feeling starting to prickle in the soft spot under her ears, Violet was confused and disoriented. She wasn’t prepared, she had no medicine here, and somehow her heat already felt different than it usually did.
Relationships: Violet Baudelaire/Count Olaf
Comments: 32
Kudos: 132





	1. part i

**Author's Note:**

> I still can’t believe I wrote an ABO fic. Happy Valentine’s Day you filthy animals.

Olaf _had_ been trying to sleep before the noise began. He heard the murmured sound of children talking on the stairs as they passed his darkened room, and he’d also heard the front door slam behind them as they left. 

Alone. The perfect time to catch some extra Zs. 

But then the noise started. It came from directly above him, something like wailing, shooting through the floorboards with no regard for whoever might still be trying to sleep during the early hour of seven O’clock in the morning. It drew forth memories he’d much rather forget ,of orphaned children, late night taxis, and an eye that burns. He is up in an instant. 

_I thought the orphans left._

He takes the stairs two at a time, hand in his pocket, clenched around the handle of his ever present knife. 

It could be those stupid volunteers come to take Beatrice’s brats away. The eldest two seem too old so maybe they’ve come only for the bitey baby. That would explain the cries, whose serrated sound grates against his ears so hard he tastes bitter bile on the back of his tongue. He can’t honestly say he cares if he has one less orphan to deal with, but he does care about people taking things that belong to him, especially when said theft ends in such aggravating noise.

He’s reached the top of the stairs, breathing heavy, brow furrowed, prepared to shout “ _What the fuck,”_ when the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

The noise coming from behind the door is definitely one of distress. A keening, throaty crying, bordering on hysterics. Now that he’s closer, he recognizes the source of his aggravation to be feminine, and his mind flashes back to the earlier voices on the stairs. It would seem most of the children had left after all.

Then the fact that it’s Violet crying like that sinks in, and it's so disturbing Olaf’s vision blurs. _Why_ , he wonders, but that query is swallowed by the hurricane of panic that is the rest of his mind. 

“Orphan, what happened?” He shouts, jerking on the locked handle of the attic door. He wasn’t even aware the door _had_ a lock, but the sound of Violet hurt—or possibly dying, it _sounds_ like she’s dying— makes his veins buzz with adrenaline, heart pounding unevenly in his ears. “Orphan, _Violet_ , I’m coming in!”

Olaf has developed many talents over the years that range from amazing anagraming skills to arson. Lock picking, something he learned at the ripe old age of eleven years old, has come in handy time and time again over the span of his life. He hasn’t yet met a lock he couldn’t pick, which is why it is so odd that the idea to pull out his knife and fiddle until the handle clicks with the satisfying sound he knows so well does not even cross his mind once.

With the strength only overwhelming panic can summon, Olaf clenches his hand around the rusted, metal handle, and rips it out of the door. The faded wood splinters with crack like broken bone.

“I’m coming in,” he starts to say as the broken door swings lamely open before him, but the words die in his throat as the smell of- of _something,_ hits him like a brick wall.

He could smell it in the hallway, he realizes, that this is why he feels like he just drank a pot of coffee or ten, his nerves buzzing, supercharged. He realizes he’s been smelling it for days, wafting down hallways and through doorways, hidden from him by the rot of the rest of the house, by his wine addled brain, and by how gradually it’s settled into the walls.

It is divine. It’s mouthwatering. Indescribable. Still, his brain tries to provide him with an appropriate description. Fresh baked pastries on a summer breeze. Newly bloomed flowers. Ambrosia, nectar, perfume, and— It’s musky too, he recognizes, a split second before he sees her.

She is splayed out on the bed, her hair a wild halo around her reddened face, feet pressed, straining, against the baseboard. She’s fully dressed in an adorable pajama set. The blue, striped shirt is partially unbuttoned, like she tried to take it off but gave up, and the matching pants are twisted around her legs. He notices the pants specifically, because they are what is hiding her hand from his view.

It is undeniable that she is trying to pleasure herself.

Olaf knows he shouldn’t be here. Every part of his rational brain is screaming _Go! Turn around, leave, and don’t come back!_ He even imagines himself doing it—turning around, heading down the stairs, getting into his car and driving far, far away from this most perfect discovery— as he relocks the door behind him and crosses the room in three, quick strides. 

“Violet,” he growls, his voice sounding thick, and deep, and forgein to him.

She looks up at him with her teary, long lashed eyes, and he can’t breathe.

  
  


Violet found out she was an omega three weeks before her thirteenth birthday. She’d been walking home from school with her brother when she suddenly felt searingly hot all over. She’d stopped short, leaned over, and vomited into the bushes. 

Klaus had run home—they hadn’t been far—but Violet remembers sitting on the damp curb with her head between her knees, just _gasping_ until her mom came with the car.

At home, Beatrice had given her some cold water, sat her down at the kitchen table, and began to explain. Due to the nausea, the headache, and the searing feeling that had spread across her skin, Violet did not listen all that closely to what her mother was saying. She knew vaguely about “alphas” and “betas” and “omegas,” but until this point it had been something to worry about in the Future, far away and for adults. 

Her mom must have called her dad, because he came home with two medicines for her in a discreet paper bag. Violet took them greatfully before heading up stairs for a cold shower, and then to bed.

It was miserable, sort of like the flu except the flu doesn’t make you feel like clawing all your skin off. Violet had no choice but to manage it best she could and then four days later it stopped. 

And her life went on. 

When she woke up in Count Olaf’s house that morning, a hot, itchy feeling starting to prickle in the soft spot under her ears, she was confused and disoriented. She wasn’t prepared, she had no medicine here, and somehow it felt different than it usually did.

She had fixed the lock on the attic door as a precaution. She hadn’t done it for this situation exactly, but because her siblings and her were living in a stranger’s home and it seemed safer that way. Now though, she was thankful she’d made it a priority. She always got cranky, and she didn’t really want Olaf or his crew mates bothering her when she was feeling so miserable.

“Klaus, I’m- it’s— I’m out of medicine. Do you think you could go into town and get some for me?” She asked him, trying to keep the whine out of her voice.

He had said yes, of course, and laced up his shoes and helped Sunny into her coat as Violet had watched, waited, waited for them to leave. He smelled like sweat and rotten eggs, and it took everything in her not to pinch up her nose and gag. He had never smelled like this before. _Maybe it’s puberty._ She makes a mental note to tell him to bathe when he gets back.

The heat crawling under her skin begins to spread, and as soon as Klaus is gone Violet hops up and locks the door. Her movements are sluggish and her thoughts swim through her head as if underwater, cold and slow and dappled in dimness. She tries to swallow, but her throat is dry. Her beating heart is the only thing she can hear, and as she turns back towards the bed, something hot slides down the inside of her leg.

When she reaches for it curiously, a cool, tingly feeling, like citrus or fizzing candy, bursts across her skin where her fingers brush her leg and suddenly Violet knows with a sureness and intensity with which she has never known anything before that a piece is missing from her and she will never, ever, be well again until she finds it. She isn’t sure what or where it is, though, and as she stumbles over to the bed, despair crashes over her and she begins to wail.

She can feel flames licking at her body, searing away her skin and stealing the oxygen from her lungs. Her insides ache worse than anything, worse then when she had the flu, worse than the time her appendix burst, worse than when she crashed her bike and impaled herself on a snapped spike from the front wheel. The feeling of her hand against the inside of her leg is the only thing that brings any relief, but even that is fleeting.

She pants, free hand pulling at the buttons of her top without much success. The cotton sticks to the sweat beading on her skin, trapping her. Touching her thighs isn’t helping much anymore, so she draws her fingers higher, sliding them into her gushing, smoldering core.

The action sends cool relief swirling through her, but only for a second, the pleasure breaking off into pain and wrongness. Her whole body begins to tremble, blood like lava in her veins. Again, Violet tries to pull her shirt off, the fingers of her other hand still pushing inside of her. Again, she is unsuccessful. 

Frustrated, she cries harder. It isn’t fair! It is too hot, she needs— she needs— she _needs—_

There is a noise far away from her, but Violet is too preoccupied to pay it any attention until room fills with a smell like burnt sugar and hot cider. It’s the same smell that had been lingering so infuriatingly throughout the house for the past week. Her mouth waters. 

Rolling up into a sitting position, she reaches up to slip her fingers through the pace between the buttons, pulling with all the strength of a kitten. Her mind is foggy and her whole body is thrumming with desire.

It’s Count Olaf, standing beside the bed, his face slack. He looks so handsome. So strong. How has she never noticed this before? He smells delicious and she’s so glad she has such a good guardian. She knows he’ll be able to protect and provide for her, but as thankful as she is, that isn’t what she needs from him now.

“Please,” she says, reaching up to grab his hand. His skin is cold against her’s, and she nuzzles her face up against his palm, practically gasping. Her tears stop. “ _Please._ ”

“Put your arms above your head.” His voice feels so incredibly right, dripping down through her ears to curl comfortably between her hips. She wants so much to please him, she really does, but she doesn't want to let go of him. If he leaves now, she knows without a doubt that she will die.

So she clutches his hand tighter, struggling to force the proper words into the forefront of her mind. “I need- please—”

Gently, he pulls his hand away from her face. She feels like weeping.

“Don’t you want to be a good girl for me, Violet?” His voice is a low growl, and Violet swallows thickly, trying not to drool. She nods, agreeing without even thinking about it. She _does_ want to be his good girl. She also wants him to make this feeling go away, though, and she can feel that pretty strongly too. 

A whine begins in the back of her throat and she can feel tears prickling behind her eyes.

“Violet,” he says again, and even her name falls like a command from his lips. “I’m going to take care of you, I promise. Now put your arms above your head.”

This time, his voice saturates her to her very bones, leaving no room for argument or refusal. She blinks, surrendering to him, and raises her shaking arms up, lips parted, panting softly. _He’s going to take care of me._

With a growl, yellowing teeth bared, Olaf grabs the bottom of her shirt and yanks it up and off of her head in one swift movement. The air prickles against her strawberry skin, her hair drifting down to brush against her shoulder blades and lower back, soft and light. She keeps her arms up, obeying still, waiting for him to do what he’s promised. 

She is being so good for him. So good. He’d watched her with wonderment as she’d squeezed her eyes shut and raised up her arms, which are still shaking with the effort. From her mouth comes a low sound which makes the base of his already stiff cock throb.

With growing desperation, he grasps her cotton pajama top and all but tears it from her body. 

The sight of her flushed, bare skin makes his head swim. Everything about her is perfect, from the pubescent weight she carries in her breasts and hips and stomach, to the short hair growing on her unshaven underarms. Her whole body is trembling with arousal. Olaf can smell it in the air, intoxicating him.

Awefilled, he reaches forward, placing his hands flat against the taut skin of her waist. 

“ _Ooh…_ ” she breathes, her arms falling halfway before she remembers to hold them up again. He knows he should tell her she can put them down, but he’s too busy surveying her with possessive pride. 

Unable and unwilling to stop himself, Olaf runs his hands up over her ribs to caresses her breasts with his thumbs. Her swollen nipples are stiff against his touch and she cries out, arching her back, arms dropping, her hands grasping his shoulders as she rolls her hips against into the mattress. 

She’s so warm and pliant in his hands, he can barely resist the urge to lean forward and start licking the frustrated tears off of her burning cheeks. 

“Please, please, please, please,” she chants. He wonders if she even knows what she wants anymore, or if she is too far gone.

With a final squeeze of her breasts, Olaf pushes Violet down onto the bed. It’s small and creaky and seemed like a frugal idea when he bought it for the Baudelaire brats. Now he wonders how Violet and he will both fit on top of it, or if it would be possible to move the whole affair down stairs to his much larger bed.

“Hips up, lovely girl.”

She complies, hands grasping the yellowed sheets beneath her in white knuckled fists.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he tells her, shimmying her pajama bottoms down her legs, and tossing them onto the floor.

She’s soaking.

That should have been obvious from the wet spot she left behind when he’d pushed her over, but when he sees how wet she actually is, he feels his breath catch in his throat and whatever blood was left in his head rushes southward. The control he’d trying so desperately to hold on to is ripped away, and he can’t think of anything other than making her his.

She’s dripping— _literally_ _dripping_ , slick coating her inner thighs and already on the bed sheet, and Olaf can’t help but reach forward and run his fingers through the mess.

 _I’m going to fuck you so good you’ll never want to leave this bed again_ , he thinks. What he says, voice crackling in his throat like kindling, is, “All this for me, Orphan?” 

He groans as he brings his fingers to his lips, his tongue flicking over them, white blooming behind his eyes like fireworks. She tastes like summer, like ripe nectarines dribbling down your chin, like hot, humid days, like the last right thing. His cock throbs, painfully hard against the confines of his pants, and he reaches for the zip, grinding his teeth, and praying preemptive for absolution. 

When he runs his fingers through the wetness between her thighs, perfect pleasure blooms like pink oleanders up her spine. Violet’s head falls back against the bed and a long moan draws from her mouth. His fingers are rough, and cool, and a thousand times better than her own. 

“All this for me, Orphan?”

 _Yes, yes, all for you,_ she thinks, wiggling her hips, but he draws away with a rumbling laugh.

 _No!_ The despair she feels is cavernous. Magma has infiltrated her marrow, pulsing so hot it’s melting through her bones like they are candle wax. She rolls over, burying her face against the blanket. The usually soft fabric scrapes against her tear streaked face.

Why won’t he touch her? She knows he can make her better, knows he can restore the melted remains of her body back to a properly Violet-shaped figurine, but he isn’t! He won’t! _He’s here to torture me,_ she thinks, one of her first lucid thoughts since she’d locked the door earlier that morning. _He’s a liar and a horrible guardian and he said he would take care of me so why won’t he just_ touch _me?_

Lost in her own self pity, Violet’s hand finds its way down between her legs again, rubbing against her tight bundle of nerves, trying to relieve some of the pressure she feels coiling inside her. Like before, it does little but build her frustration, and her muffled cries become louder.

 _It isn’t fair! It isn’t!_ She laments. She doesn’t even bother to look up when Olaf grabs her hips, yanking them into the air. _If he’s just going to tease me again, he won’t have my help with it!_

Then he thrusts inside her, the fabric of his shirt brushing across her lower back, and Violet chokes over a sob, eyes snapping open. It is so right, filling her up, so deep inside her, more than she could have hoped. The heat in her veins swirls, no longer quite as painful, but just as insistent. Violet presses her ribcage down against the blankets, arching her back further, babbling incoherence. _This is what an Alpha feels like_ . She wants to beg him to move, to fuck her, fuck her, fuck her, _please_ , but she doesn’t have to because he’s already driving into her over and over, pounding her into the bed, and she’s wailing, it’s exactly what she needs, yes, yes, oooh _!_

The bed is creaking and cracking so much Olaf isn’t sure it won’t splinter apart beneath them. That worry is not enough to stop him, however, as he continues to plunge into the little omega. She is taking him, all of him, better than he ever would have imagined she could.

Olaf is, like most alphas, rather well endowed. His cock is long, and thick, and curves upwards in a way most of his past partners have found especially pleasurable. He’s fucked countless, faceless women, but even the most skilled of them had some difficulty taking him all the way on the first try. 

Not Violet though. 

He watches, mesmerized and smitten, as her pink, engorged cunt envelops him greedily, over and over again, the slick, sloppy sound of it mixing with her moans in a song of pleasure he takes great pride in. She’s so tight, so soft, so willing, and she fits him like a glove. An adorable, flushed, mewling glove. 

Climbing up from the base of his spine, pleasure makes his head spin, and he grinds his teeth together so hard it cracks through his jaw. _I can never let this go,_ he realizes, then hooks one arm around Violet’s neck, yanking her up onto her knees.

Shocked, choking and off balance, her fingernails digging into his arm. The new position does not, he notices, stop the rocking of her hips to meet his own.

“Who could have guessed that Violet Baudelaire is such a whore?” He wonders aloud, leaning down close to her ear. The sugar-sweet smell radiating from her scent glands rolls across his tongue and he has to fight every instinct not to bite her right then and there. _Soon,_ he tells himself. _Soon._

“A little omega with no suppressors, begging to be fucked loud enough the whole neighborhood can hear her.” He shifts his arm a little higher, pulling her up with it, and his thrusts become much more shallow. She cries out in alarm, fingers grasping at him harder.

“Is that what you want, Violet? To get fucked by the whole neighborhood?” She’s whining now, with tear-filled, glassy eyes, so pitifully lost in it that he wonders if she can actually hear him at all. “Answer me, Violet! You want to get fucked by the whole neighborhood? Come on,” he simpers sweetly. “You can tell me.”

“No! Just you- Ooahh, you, Alpha, please—”

He cuts her off by adjusting the way his forearm sits against her windpipe. “Oh, I bet you say that to all the alphas, don't you?” He’s teasing her now, using his free hand to trace through her soft pubic hair and over her outer lips. The head of his cock is still dipping shallowly inside her, but he knows it isn’t doing anything more than frustrating her. “How many men _have_ you fucked, Violet? No, no, don’t lie to me. No one takes a cock this well their first time.”

“Just you- only you- just, please, I need- aah, I-” She’s drooling, he can feel it dripping on his arm, and he leans forward, teasing her swollen scent gland with the tiniest flick of his tongue.

The result is explosive. Violet screams, her whole body shuddering, cunt clenching around his tip like a vice as a veritable waterfall of slick gushes out of her to coat the insides of her thighs.

“Ooh, that’s good,” he breathes. She’s growing weaker under his grip, and if he doesn’t want her to pass out from lack of oxygen he’ll have to let up soon. 

“Violet, who is your alpha?” He asks her, a final little test.

“You, I’m yours, yours, yours! I- Please, fuck me- I need- please please fuck me, you- I-” She’s babbling again and Olaf laughs. It’s almost too easy. She’ll agree to anything he asks her right now, if she thinks he might fuck her for it. But that is good enough for him. More than good enough, actually, he’s delighted, imagining what sort of promises he could get her to make. Maybe he’ll write an erotic play, he’s always wanted to do that, with her as the leading lady. She’d make a lovely porn star, so flexible and obedient. It’s a shame he doesn’t have a camera with him now!

Too high with elation to be truly regretful, Olaf’s hands slip away from Violet’s breast and from between her legs to settle on her hips, where he slams her down onto his cock with as much force as he can.

Violet’s died and gone to Heaven. Or maybe Hell. Or- somewhere, but certainly not Earth, not anymore, because this cannot be real. Nothing can feel this good, this _much_ , and still be real.

Her skin is on fire, her whole body burning with unadulterated pleasure, as Olaf is thrusts inside her, filling her up and stretching her out, licking and sucking the skin along her neck. His hands are playing with her breasts, pinching and twisting and rolling her rosy nipples between his fingers that make her breasts ache in a way she has never achieved on her own. He has monopolized all her senses, inside and out. There is only him, Olaf, Alpha.

“What would your siblings say, if they could see what a slut their sister really is?” He asks, teeth skimming along her earlobe. She got them pierced last year, but she wasn't wearing any earrings that day at the beach, isn’t wearing any now. “And your poor, poor parents? Poor, deceased Beatrice and Bertrand. Why, I bet they are rolling in their graves right now! You really fooled them all, didn’t you, Violet?”

She shakes her head, panting, but he shifts his hips a little, and he’s hitting a spot even deeper inside of her, and with a cry, any words she might have been able to summon crumble away again.

“I mean,” he pauses, grunting, “you dress up in your little school girl dresses, and you kiss up to teachers, and get the best grades like you’re some kind of good girl—” The words “good girl” send pleasure spiraling down her spine, blooming, blooming, and she sees pink and veins behind her eyelids. “None of them know that _this_ is what you live for.” His tongue laps over her scent gland against and she moans, dropping her head to the left to give him better access to it, her right side going almost numb with buzzing pleasure. 

He laughs, but it breaks into a moan. “God— this is what you were born for, isn’t it? To take my cock like this? My own little omega slut?” 

His words register somewhere inside Violet, ice cold in the cavity of her chest, calling forth vague memories to the forefront of her mind— _her backpack in the creek behind the school, mean words carved into her desk, lunch spilled out across the cafeteria floor, “Everyone knows omegas are only good for one thing anyways, you stuck up bitch”—_ but Olaf has abandoned her breasts, one finger now circling her clit without quite touching it, so infuriating it draws her attention away.

“Don’t you agree?” He asks her, voice low and straining. “Don’t you just want to stay here and fuck me for the rest of your life?”

“I—” His hands, his cock, his tongue are irresistible distractions and Violet’s sure he knows it. Plus, something about his voice is hypnotic, sensual, and just so right.

 _What_ would _be so wrong with getting fucked by him for the rest of my life,_ she wonders.

“Aren’t I such a good guardian, Violet? Such a good alpha? Aren’t I taking such good care of you?”

“Yea—” He is. He’s taking such good care of her. _My alpha. “_ Yes! I- ohh, ahh—“

“And you’re going to take my knot now, aren’t you? You’ll do that for me? I’m going to come inside you and you’ll love it, won’t you?” 

His voice is ragged, and Violet is so lust-drunk she doesn’t even know what he’s talking about anymore. She can’t focus on his words, doesn’t know why he’s asking her so many questions. Every time she thinks she’s hit the peak of her pleasure, it seems to climb higher. It’s transcendent, out of body, she’s no longer Violet, she’s flying, she’s made of pure white light. 

“Yes, sure, anything- Ooh, please, Olaf, Alpha, _Alpha, Alpha_ —“

And he’s pushed her down, she’s landing on her forearms, still babbling nonsense, and he’s wiggling his hips against hers, and she feels herself stretch over something at the base of his cock— _how could there possibly more_ —and his fingers are rough and rubbing and flicking and tugging on her clit, and now she’s screaming, tongue hanging out of her mouth as she feels something gushing and gushing inside of her like pure bliss, and she’s shattering apart again and again for minute after excruciating minute.

And then it’s done. 

“How was that?” Olaf asks, falling beside her on the bed, pulling her tight against his chest. He’s still buried between her legs, but she feels numb all over, tingly with the aftershock. She’s so tired. She is safe, and satisfied, and _so_ tired. Her eyelids start to fall, and her Alpha chuckles, warm against the back of her neck. 

Olaf watches Violet slip out of consciousness, amused. She’s not the first omega he’s been with, he knows how it goes. She looks so sweet and innocent, sound asleep, but in a few minutes she’ll be up and begging for his cock again.

How delicious. It really is too good. He wonders what Beatrice and Bertrand would do if they could see him now, their precious daughter fast asleep in his arms, his cock still knotted up inside her. _What incredible luck,_ he thinks. _What perfectly horrible karma._ They always said good things come to those who wait, but he never realized it could be meant quite so literally. 

He has been musing for some time about the best way to rub this marvelous development in all those hypocrite, do-gooder’s faces, when there is a soft noise, and Violet’s eyes blink open. “Uhh…” she looks around, her eyes clear for the first time, and then tries to sit up, expression slipping from contentment into confusion. She is so transparent he can see exactly what she’s thinking as the thoughts pass through her mind. 

_Where I am, what’s going on, why was I asleep, why is Olaf here, why am I so sticky—_

“What- Olaf—” Then she notices his softening cock still inside her, their combined fluids painting the insides of her thighs, and stiffens, face going white. Her lips flutter, unable to form words, as he watches her affectionately, one arm still slung around her waist. Her breath starts coming quicker, her blue, forget-me-not eyes dancing over him, and now she’s trying to push him away from her, confused and terrified.

“Violet,” he says, his voice even. She freezes still, but her whole body is shaking. “You’re okay.” He tries to keep his voice as low and calm as possible, as if he’s speaking to a wild animal. She’s so cute, frightened. The wideness of her eyes and the quiver of her lips makes him giddy. “I said I would take care of you. Do you remember that?”

She scans the room for clues, trying to sort out the hazy memories of the last— _how long had it even been? Minutes? Hours? Days?_ — but there’s only the same old slanted ceiling, rotting floorboards, three-legged chair, and empty wardrobe as always. 

“Violet,” he says again, patient as ever. He’s mellowed out, no longer drowning under the intense hormones fucking an unmated omega brings, but he notices Violet’s cheeks starting to bloom pink and knows that that won’t be the case for long. “Do you remember anything? My good, good girl?”

She’s still looking around the room, but at those words her eyes snap to him, and she inhales sharply through her nose. “I- I think I’m getting sick,” she mutters, trying to pull away from him again. There’s an icky, squelching sound and her face twists. “I don’t feel well, it’s too hot in here, I need some water—”

“ _Violet_.” And third time's a charm. There is a glassy sheen across her eyes, her pupils blown out huge, and when he sits up, she lets him pull her to his chest without anymore fuss.

“I’m hot…” she warbles. “It’s too hot.” She presses her face against his shoulder, hands grasping at the sweat soaked fabric of the shirt he forgot he was still wearing.

 _Should take that off,_ he thinks to himself, but the smell of arousal is dripping off of her once more and he can feel his cock stirring and she’s moaning, grinding her hips against his, and _it can wait._

“I- please, I’m- oh, it’s so hot, please, Olaf- I need— I need—” she’s gasping again, those fucking irrestitable little pants, and he can see the soft pinkness of her tongue against a row of pearly white teeth. Because he can—because she’s begging for it—he leans down and kisses her hungrily, sliding his tongue between her flower petal lips, as deep into her mouth as he is able.

As far as first kisses go, it’s a good one, hot and rough and wet. When he finally pulls away, her eyes are half lidded and a string of saliva stretches between them for a fraction of a second before it snaps. The image is so pornographic he almost laughs out loud, still reveling at his fantastic luck.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he murmurs, running his hands over her bottom. She arches her back, pressing her breasts up against him with a cry. Proudly, he surveys the bruises forming on her milky white skin from his earlier abuse and wonders how many more will be there by the end of her heat. 

They’ll have to move to his room at some point, where there’s an en-suite bathroom. He can’t have his little omega dying of dehydration and bathtub heat-sex sounds delightful— he images for a second pushing her head under the water, cunt clenching around him so tight as she struggles to sit up and breath— Plus, his bed is far more comfortable.

He’s a little surprised to note that he _does_ actually want her to be comfortable, at least a little bit. That the things he muttering in her ear while he starts to slowly roll his cock into her again, _what a good girl, you’re taking me so well, you’re doing so good, I’m going to take care of you, you’re my good, good girl, aren’t you,_ are all genuine. But his mind is starting to grow hazy with red hot lust, the aphrodisiac smell of _Violet, his Violet_ , is filling up the room like someone drenched it in goddamn perfume, and he decides it’s something he can ponder about later.

He’s got the rest of the week, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it. Comments make my week! There will be one more chapter soon.


	2. part ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'lL uPdAtE aGaIn SoOn"  
> Anyways, you will see that I have updated not only the chapter count but the tags as well. Please heed them. This chapter doesn't contain very much sex, but the future ones will. There is a lot of fake names and fake science in this chapter. The names especially are not based on anyone real.

Klaus stands in front of the double doors to Olaf’s bedroom, fist raised hesitantly above the worn wood. All his hair stands on end, stomach rolling at the wrongness, but he does not back down. 

It was a difficult feeling to describe. When Violet had asked Klaus to take Sunny and pick her up some medicine, he’d been worried. He hadn’t wanted to say anything but she looked awful, glassy eyed and face red with fever. Her hands had been clammy when she’d squeezed them around his in thanks. 

So he’d hurried to the store. He didn’t truly understand what an omega was. He’d meant to do some research, but his parents had assured him they would explain some day and it hadn’t seemed too pressing at the time. In his sixth grade class some students had been pulled out for a special lesson and the rest of them had been told they’d be covering alphas, betas, and omegas next year. Emily Kim and Marcus Miller, he remembered, had returned looking a little green in the face. 

What he did know was that alphas and omegas were rare and growing rarer each year. Alphas being slightly more common were known to be erratic, violent, and dominating. They tended to end up in ambitious positions, CEOs or Army Generals. Well, that or in jail.

Omegas were far rarer. He had seen statistics in a magazine once, describing the break down. Betas, like their parents, lead with an estimate of 90.7%. Alphas came up next with 9%. Omegas brought up the rear with only 0.3%. Klaus had done some quick math in his head, and found the result shocking. That was almost 30 million alphas to under 10 thousands omegas in the country. 

There had been an article beside it, explaining that most Alphas had little hope of finding a mate in modern day. In some countries the bride price for an omega could rise to over a hundred million dollars. A quote stood violent red against the center of the page, catching Klaus’ eye. It said, “I’d kill a hundred men for even a chance at a mate. But most of us know it’s never going to happen.”

Klaus remembered shutting the magazine and slipping it to the bottom of the stack, deeply unsettled as he listened to the sound of his sister puking somewhere else in the house.

Part of the reason he’d been so hesitant to research secondary sexes—he could admit to himself now—was that he wasn’t sure he’d like what he found. He heard the nasty whispers in the hallways about certain kids at school, or about some actress in a popular movie. More than once Violet would meet him at the end of the day with a soaking wet school bag or none at all. She’d smile and joke about how clumsy she could be, but there was a tired sadness in her eyes. Violet was the kindest, cleverest, strongest person he’d ever known, aside from their parents. He couldn’t imagine anyone judging her based on something as arbitrary as being an omega. 

When he’d returned to Count Olaf’s house with the medicine, Klaus had known something was different the second he opened the front door. A cold, icky feeling had prickled the back of his neck, and as he’d walked towards the stairs, he’d found it harder and harder to breath. By the time he reached the bottom step, he couldn’t move any further. Sunny had started to cry, and it hit him just what he was feeling.

Fear. It was the deepest, most instinctual thing he’d ever experienced. It was as if the air around him crackled, crying “There is someone here much stronger than you and if they see you, they will kill you. Get out, get out, _get out!”_

He’d stood at the bottom of those stairs for an eternity, Sunny in one arm, a paper bag in the other, trying to fight against the primal part of him that demanded he protect himself and his baby sister.

“What about Violet?” he wanted to scream, but there was nothing to do. He left the bag of medicine at the bottom of the stairs and exited the house. 

Frightened, confused, and at a loss on what to do, he headed across the street to Justice Strauss’s house. He’d explained the situation to her, fear only growing as her face went white. Before he could ask, she covered it with a smile, insisting the two of them would stay with her for however long they needed. 

“I’m sure your father is taking care of her,” she said, shutting the door behind them. “Now, I know you love the library. Why don’t you wait there while I set up a guest room?”

“He’s _not_ our father,” Klaus growled, but he waited all the same.

Though he tried to return to Count Olaf’s house every day following, the jarring aura only became stronger. Klaus would pace along the sidewalk outside of the house for hours, but it was no use. He refused to sit aimlessly while God-knows-what was happening with his sister in that horrible man’s house, though, so he took to scouring the library in the afternoons. 

The first four days he found nothing of interest. He checked ‘A’ for ‘Alphas,’ ‘B’ for ‘Betas,’ ‘O’ for ‘Omegas,’ and even 'S' for 'Secondary Sexes,' but there were no books on any of them. He asked Justice Strauss if she had any books on it as tactfully as he could over dinner on the fourth night of their stay—She’d been letting Sunny help her in the kitchen. They’d made a delicious niçoise salad that particular night— but she’d babbled something about “things children shouldn’t be worried about,” and not given him an answer.

That night he’d been struck with an idea. 

“I’m so stupid!” he’d burst out, sitting up in bed before he clapped a hand over his mouth, remembering Sunny asleep beside him. She stirred softly, but did not wake. Klaus tiptoed out of the guest room, eyes on her, before heading down to the library.

He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought to check the encyclopedia earlier. It only took a minute to find the volume he needed, and he retreated to a far corner of the library where he hopped onto one of Justice Strauss’ comfortable armchairs, too excited to get properly settled.

That excitement faded, fleeting as snow on hot cement as soon as it began to read. Klaus simply could not reconcile the words on the page with the sister he knew so well. 

_Omegas are the weakest sex. Physically smaller and more delicate than both alphas and betas, they are submissive both socially and sexually._

_Omegas are awarded few legal protections. Historically, they were often considered property of their dominant parent or guardian until they had been mated, at which time rights to their person transferred to their bonded alpha. This was done for the safety of the omegas. Due to their licentious nature, they could not be trusted to act in their own best interest. (_ Licentious nature had an asterisk next to it, and a small note at the bottom on the page revealed the volume and page number of the related “Oestrous Mensuum” passage.)

Klaus felt physically sick. He forced himself to keep reading.

_In recent times, most societies allow omegas to be autonomous with clearance from their doctors, or, in the case that they are mated, their alpha. They are even allowed to work and live on their own, so long as they take the recommended meditations and refrain from public sexual displays. Their alpha is able to revoke these rights at any time. If an omega is unmated and declared unable to care for themselves by a doctor or judge, their rights will be revoked as well. The omega will revert back to the care of their previous guardian or they will be committed to a psychiatric ward where they will be cared for by the state._

_Though remarkable progress has been made in the past hundred years, omegas still have little recompense against unwanted attention from alphas. Due to the irresistible nature of their pheromones, most courts rule in favor of alphas in situations of sexual assault, rape, and forced mate marking. In the famous case of Elliot vs Briggs, the now deceased Judge Reese Coleman, an alpha and member of the supreme court, famously said, “Can you blame a cat for hunting a mouse? A wolf for killing a sheep? Then how can you blame an alpha for mating an omega?” He finished his speech with what is perhaps the most frequently quoted phrase on the issue. “It’s simple biology.”_

Klaus dropped the book, the library heart pounding violently against his breastbone. There were a few more paragraphs on the page, but he couldn’t bring himself to open the book again, white burning behind his eyes like a camera flash. His fingers dug into the arms of the chair as he tried to make sense of the words he’d just read. Like a stuck record, he saw one sentence in particular over and over again. 

_Due to the irresistible nature of their pheromones, most courts rule in favor of alphas in situations of sexual assault, rape, and forced mate marking._

He thought of his sister alone in that horrible house, alone with that horrible man, and pressure like a fist closed around his lungs. The library spun around him. Distantly, he realized he was having a panic attack.

“Klaus?” There was a rush of footsteps, and Justice Strauss appeared. “What on Earth are you doing here? I am always in favor of the pursual of knowledge, but it’s the middle of the night—”

“Is Count Olaf an alpha?” Klaus blurted out, praying his belief would not be confirmed.

She froze, mouth open, blinking at him. 

“Klaus…” She said when she could, twisting her hands together nervously. “Maybe it would be best to talk about this in the morning.”

Klaus gasped for air, one hand covering his mouth. He thought he might vomit. 

Violet was alone with that man in that house, he’d left her alone in that house, Olaf was an alpha and he’d left her alone, Violet was alone with that horrible…

_Due to the irresistible nature of their pheromones, most courts rule in favor of alphas in situations of sexual assault, rape, and forced mate marking._

“Klaus…” Justice Strauss repeated.

“Oh my god.” His voice cracked. “Oh my god.”

Then he threw up.

Klaus kept reminding himself that he didn’t know what was happening in the house. Olaf was creepy, and certainly not above child abuse, but that didn’t necessarily mean he’d violate someone unable to fight back. Even if he was an alpha.

On the seventh day, after what felt like months of panic and research and crying, Klaus found he was able to enter the house. His hair still stood on end, and his stomach still turned but he could force himself through the front door and up the stairs.

So there he stands, frozen in front of Olaf’s bedroom door, unable to knock. It's not biological this time. He’s just afraid of what he will find. He cannot help but think of Schrodinger's cat, though the situation is far more serious. If he does not open the door, his sister is in perfect health. There is no need for worry.

But there _is_ need for worry. Klaus searched the whole house except for the master bedroom. Everything was exactly as it had been, except the upstairs attic room. That’s what scared him the most. The door handle was ripped straight off, lying forgotten on the floor of the hall. 

So now he stands in front of Olaf’s bedroom door, the only place he hasn’t looked. He left it until last on purpose, desperately hoping Violet would be in one of the many, many _other_ bedrooms within the huge house.

He takes a deep breath, ignoring the pain in his chest and knocks once. The door swings open almost immediately, and Count Olaf leers down him, dressed only in a pair of ill fitting trousers, a towel slung over his shoulders. His damp hair is swept back from his face, and his bare chest is covered in long thin scrapes and purple bruises.

Klaus' throat burns, revulsion crowding the back of his throat.

“What are you doing here?” the count asks. He has one hand on the door frame, the other on the door, his body filling up the space and preventing Klaus from seeing into the room.

“Where’s my sister?” Klaus asks.

The count’s indifferent expression shifts into something slightly guarded, and he pulls the door a little closer to closed. “That’s not your business,” he says, glaring.

The back of his neck prickles, but Klaus stands his ground. “Let me see Violet. I know you have her, I want to see my sister.”

The count’s lips pull back in a sneer, and he leans down close to Klaus, who pulls away. “Absolutely not.” He straightens, looking the boy over with an air of dispassionate finality, and turns to close the door.

“I know what you’re planning to do!” Klaus blurts out, before quickly clamping his jaw shut. He hadn’t meant to say that. He was here to get Violet back, not provoke the man into doing anything worse.

The count pauses in the doorway, glancing back at Klaus with renewed interest. “Oh?” He asks, voice light with amusement. “And what might that be?”

Klaus stands frozen for a moment, listening to the sound of a far away car racing off, wishing he and sisters were in it. He thinks of an article he read those years ago, of the bright red quote. He thinks of the encyclopedia and the explanations that made his skin crawl. He thinks of Coleman’s words, and the little he knows about Count Olaf. He thinks—still acutely aware of The count’s gleaming eyes upon him—that if he says it out loud, it will make everything that much more real.

“You’re planning to use Violet to take advantage of archaic laws surrounding alphas and omegas to steal our fortune.”

The words hang in the air between them, as heavy as any secret. Klaus hopes the count will laugh at the absurdity of the statement, say “I’m your adoptive father, I’d never do such a terrible thing, you stupid orphan!” but the man does not. Instead an eerie smile stretches across his face, and he reaches out with one long hand to pat Klaus on the head.

“Now aren’t we clever,” he says as Klaus jerks away. “You must be proud, figuring all that out by yourself.”

Nausea writhes like a serpent in Klaus’ stomach, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. Straightening his glasses, he grits out, “You won’t get away with it. I’ll tell everyone your plan. Someone will stop you before you get the chance to- to-” He can’t finish.

“To bite her?” The count finished with a wicked, wicked grin. 

Bile burns his throat. “I want to see Violet,” he demands. 

The count rolls his eyes, standing tall once more. “Absolutely. Not.”

Klaus crosses his arms, glaring at him.

The count glancing over his shoulder, almost nervously. “Look you- you need to leave.” He waves Klaus away. “Go on now. Shoo.”

“No.” Undeterred, Klaus plants his feet, voice growing louder. “I want to see my sister!”

“Be quiet!” Count Olaf hisses, lurching at him, but he isn’t fast enough.

“Olaf?” A sweet voice calls from the dark hazy beyond the door frame. “Who are you talking to?”

  
  


Olaf wonders how sad she would be if he killed the runt. He can imagine it clearly— he’s a nosy little bookworm, and his neck would snap so easily— but then the stupid child is shouting again, “Violet! Violet, I’m here, are you alright?” and he can’t quiet him fast enough. 

The stupid boy was wrong, on all accounts, about Olaf’s “plan.” In fact, until he mentioned it, Olaf hadn’t been thinking about the Baudelaire fortune at all. It certainly would be a fantastic perk, the cherry on top of an already delicious sunday.

“Klaus? Olaf is that—Come in where I see you!”

The little brat shoots him a triumphant look and Olaf’s grip tightens around the door before, with a deep inhale, he forces himself to let go. It swings open with a low creak and the bookworm rushes past into the room.

They made quite a mess of it. Dark and cave-like, dust catches in the light shining through the crack in the drawn curtains. Clothing, papers, dead flowers, and an assortment of other items are scattered across the ornate, stained carpet. The night table was toppled and the sheer curtains on one side of the huge canopy bed had been clawed down at some point. On the far side of the room, there is an open door, the shower is still running from when he had been so rudely interrupted. Steam mixes with the musky smell of the room, filling the space with muggy heat. Olaf watches the boy's face contort, and he pulls the collar of his shirt up to cover his nose. 

“Violet?” he calls, voice quavering. Olaf shuts the bedroom door, never taking his eyes off of the intruder. The moment the boy spots her, buried beneath a pile of blankets that weigh more than Olaf does, he rushes to her side. 

He isn’t sure why her annoying siblings hadn’t bothered them earlier, in all honesty. They seem annoyingly close and he doubts they would’ve just allowed the situation to develop as it had. Maybe it was some sort of biological thing. He’s never had to worry about being interrupted before.

“Klaus!” Violet calls, cheerful though her voice is soft and scratchy. It was understandable, after the screaming and crying she’d done all week. Olaf moves to the end of the bed, observing the reunion with displeasure. She’s happy, at least, albeit a little anxious. “How are you? How is Sunny? I’m so sorry I didn’t have time to explain— you must have been so confused—”

“I’m fine, Sunny is fine,” the boy says, twisting his hands together in front of him. He keeps glancing back at Olaf, obviously wishing he would leave them alone. Olaf is all too happy to glare back and remind him that he isn’t going anywhere. “We’ve been staying at Justice Strauss’ house, across the street. It’s nice. She’s nice.”

“I’m glad.” Violet wriggles in her cocoon until she gets one arm free. She reaches out to take her brother’s hand, and Olaf grips the bedpost, growl building in the base of his throat. She ignores him. “Has she been feeding you well?”

“Yes, of course. She lets Sunny help her in the kitchen! She loves it—they’ve made all sorts of cool things. They’re making vegetable lasagna tonight, and- well, I was thinking, why don’t you come?”

Blood rushes in his ears and Olaf lunges forward, grabbing the boy by his arm. The only thing that keeps him from tossing the brat head first down the stairs is that Violet speaks immediately, says, “Thank you Klaus, but maybe not tonight.” She shoots Olaf a look, and he lets go, taking two steps back to resume his sentry position. “I’m still… recovering. Maybe you can save me a plate.”

Olaf forces himself to breath. She isn’t trying to leave. She isn’t going anywhere. She doesn’t want to go anywhere. She wants to stay with him. 

From the moment he entered the bedroom, to some degree Klaus was aware that he was too late. The stubborn, emotional part of his brain still hoped that maybe the Count had locked Violet in this room and left her there to burn herself out—that that was the reason for all the damage.

He picked his way through the debris to the bed, and for a moment, relief washed over him. Violet was safe, she was okay, she was _fine_. She looked a little worse for the wear, with dark circles bruising beneath her eyes, hair curling in a wild halo around her head. And her head was all he could see, nested beneath what must have been ten or more blankets and quilts. What comforted him though, was the fact that she was smiling at him. If Count Olaf really had violated her, how could she be smiling?

The count stands a few feet away, eyes burning into Klaus’ back, and Klaus wishes he’d drop dead. He would tell him so, too, but Violet’s asking him about Sunny and how they’ve been and he plays along uneasily. Her voice is hoarse but he tries not to let that worry him.

When she grabs his hand, his stomach rolls again. Purple bruising circles around her wrists and upper arm, and he can make out the distinct imprints of fingerprints. Maybe she’d tried to hurt herself and the count had restrained her. He’d done some more research, he knew omegas would do that sometimes, if their… needs weren’t being met. 

As the conversation progresses, the situation continues to devolve. Klaus cannot believe what he’s hearing. That’s his sister is not taking this chance to… escape this monster! “Violet, you can’t stay here!” He insists on a rushed, shaking voice.

Violet’s face falls, but she covers it with a determined tightening of her lips. Through great struggle on her part, she sits up and disentangles herself, careful that the blankets still cover her. Klaus feels the blood leave his face as he realizes she’s naked. It’s becoming harder and harder to fight the obvious conclusion.

Violet squeezes his hand. “I know that this is all new to you and that's scary. But it’s new to me too! My- estrus—” she stumbles over the scientific term for a “heat,” cheeks reddening. “—was different than it’s been before and that’s—that was scary for me. But Olaf has been so kind—”

“Except he hasn’t! He hasn’t been kind at all!” The boy bursts out, unable to listen any longer. His eyes well with tears. He can’t believe this. “If he were kind he would have taken you to a doctor and gotten you the medicine you needed!”

Violet shrinks back against the pillows, worry etched upon her face. “Klaus, stop,” she says, voice small.

“If he were kind he wouldn’t have kept you locked in here all week!” he continues, the worry that’s been festering all week bubbling over as anger instead. 

Olaf grabs his shoulder from behind and Klaus bites back a grunt of pain. 

“She told you to stop,” he growls.

Klaus, with tears now streaming down his face, ignores him. “If he were kind, Violet, he wouldn’t have _raped_ you!”

“ _Shut up you stupid fucking brat!_ ” Olaf shouts as Violet gasps, face twisting, her eyes going wide.

Next thing he knows, he’s landing on his back, six...no, ten feet clear of the bed. His head throbs and he sits up, gasping. He pats himself down. No obvious damage, though he’ll probably have some bruising.

The count is crouched beside Violet, who has folded over on herself, sobbing. He appears to be trying to comfort her. Disgust writhes in Klaus’s stomach as he observes the man murmuring something against her ear, his hands combing through her wild hair in what is probably supposed to be a calming gesture. Then Klaus catches sight of a crescent wound, angry red against Violet’s pale collar, and he can feel the blood in his veins crystallizing.

The room spins. “You...you…” 

Once he knew for certain Olaf was an alpha, and after the police had patronizingly informed him that they couldn’t help with his sisters “situation,” Klaus had taken the trolley to the public library to do more research. Information on the intricacies of alpha and omega rituals was hard to come by, apparently considered too personal to share. After hours and hours of bullshit laws and quotes and unhelpful information, Klaus had come across a small red book. Titled “Prey,” there was no author listed. It was thin enough to be bound with staples, and the pages were yellowed with age. 

The book had turned out to a published journal of an omega woman named Theresa Cane. It detailed her everyday life up until soon after she was married and mated. There was no explanation of why her journal had been published or why it had stopped when it did, but it was the first piece of writing Klaus had been able to find by an actual omega.

He had checked it out, even though he’d finished it right there on the library floor, because it was by far the most helpful source he’d come across. The most important part, in his opinion, were Cane’s entries about alphas. She claimed that while omegas tended to go out of their minds alphas retained some level of self awareness even when in rut. 

She insisted, in one of her last entries, that mating was completely intentional for alphas. “I believe,” she wrote. “That alphas are in some grand game of cahoots in which omegas everywhere are the losers. They have fooled the public and perhaps even other omegas, but they will not fool me. I do not remember much from that night, but through some strange horror, I can remember when I was bitten. He looked into my eyes and I saw they were not the eyes of a beast. His were the eyes of a man who was about to get exactly what he wanted.”

As Klaus stares at the mate mark on Violet, the room spins around him. He can’t breathe. In the modern world, before mating an omega, there are legalities, steps shrouded in bureaucracy and red tape that have to be taken. That are _supposed_ to be taken. Klaus naively assumed that even if his worst fears had come to pass, they’d have at least three months to escape the count’s evil clutches. The man wouldn’t have had the forethought to do any paperwork as he wouldn’t have known what Violet was beforehand. 

Klaus lets out a laugh of absolute devastation. How could he possibly have thought—fucking _paperwork_ —

Filled with a shame like ruination and an overwhelming need to be somewhere, anywhere else, Klaus turns and flees.

“Klaus?” Violet wipes her eyes and watches her brother stagger back, face pale and growing paler. He stumbles, then spins around, practically sprinting from the room. “Klaus?” She calls again, shoving at the blankets, trying to get out of the bed.

“Hey hey hey! Where do you think you’re going?” Olaf asks, his hands tightening on her shoulders. 

Violet glares at him. “My brother ran out of here looking like- like he’d seen a ghost! I need to make sure he’s okay!”

Olaf glances at the place where Klaus had just been, irritated, and they both hear the front door slam. His hands rub strong, slow circles into her shoulders, and Violet can’t help but let her anxiety seep away. “I don’t think you’re in any condition to be chasing after anybody,” he says finally.

Violet sits up straight, offended. “He’s my _brother._ I know he was rude, but he’s just confused. I can… I just have to explain everything. Then he’ll understand.”

Pulling his hands away, Olaf sits back and snorts. “Fine. Don’t let me stop you.” He looks relaxed, eyes half closed, arms behind his head, but Violet sees him tense as she slips her legs out from under the blankets. 

Her muscles scream in protest, pain lacing up her legs and through her hips and waist. She winces and stumbles, but before she can regain her balance Olaf has his hands around her waist, hefting her off the floor. “Huh!”

He drops her right back where she was on the bed, and stands in front of her, crossing his arms. She wonders how he moves so fast. He’s a perfect alpha. Her perfect alpha.

She allows her eyes to shift across his torso, basking in the sight of him. He is lean and long, but defined muscle lies taut beneath his skin. She longs to run her hands through the hair peppering his chest. There are bruises and scratches and teeth marks across the visible skin of his torso, and her eyes linger on them.

“You could add a couple more, if you want,” Olaf purrs, sidling closer. 

Violet reaches out, pulling a hand down the front of his chest to the patch of hair peeking out from the waist and of his trousers. She wonders if he’s wearing them so low around his hips to taunt her. 

Outside the house, another door slams and the tension snaps. She blinks, jerks back. “Hey! You fiend! I need to make sure my brother is okay.”

Olaf throws up his hands. “He’s just upset about the…” 

He makes a vague gesture towards Violet, who scrunches up her nose. “The what? That you threw him across the room?” she snaps, crossing her bare legs, hissing slightly. “You know you shouldn’t have done that. I just- I got so angry when he said—”

“No, no,” he says, gesturing again. “He...he saw the- the mark.” Olaf shifts in place, and Violet can’t understand why he’s so nervous.

She can’t remember much from her heat, right up until the part that she can. There were flashes of feelings, sounds, eddies of sensation spinning like stuck records in the haze of her mind. Then there was a sensation like no other, like her very soul splintering, breaking into fractals, like being rebuilt, reborn. Every nerve in her body buzzed electric, her spine a live wire. She remembered hearing something loud enough to make her head throb. She realized it was screaming, and that it was her.

After that, she can remember everything with sparkling clarity. She was naked and sticky. Her hair stuck to her back and shoulders, soaking wet. Olaf had his arms wrapped around her, pinning her to his chest, his teeth buried in the flesh where her neck met her shoulder. He’d mangled the gland there, and the scent was so thick the air was barely breathable.

She had frozen for a second, heart pounding in her ears, taking in her surroundings. Even though she didn’t know where she was, or what was going on, she wasn’t afraid. 

Her neck ached, and she glanced down to watch a line of blood trickle down her breast. She noticed bruises and other abrasions swirling across her skin, and realized Olaf was inside of her. 

“How was that?” he asked, his voice a hoarse growl in her ear.

Her head spun.

Face impassive, she reached down and brushed her fingers over the place where their bodies met. His cock was so thick, and the insides of both their thighs covered in viscous slick. Violet wiggled her hips experimentally. It was a pleasant feeling, being stuffed full.

Olaf made a straggled noise, and worry sparked in her chest. After only a moment she realized it was not her own. Her mind was moving a mile a minute, but nothing she was feeling was negative. She felt perfectly safe.

“Do you… remember anything?” More emotions. Apprehension, excitement, and _lust._ It burned in the back of her throat, pooled in the pockets of her body, zipped through her blood.

Violet craned her head, stretching as best she could to look at him, though the wound on her neck ached in protest. He was just as sweaty as her, lips dripping ruby red. Gripping his thigh with one hand, she reached up and swiped a thumb across his lips. It came away covered in red streaked saliva. Olaf locked eyes with her, watching silent and curious. He had beautiful eyes: quizzical, smart, grey blue like little pools of storming sky. 

Tension stretched like a rubber band, thick in the space between them, until Violet flashed a cheeky smile and popped her thumb into her mouth, cheeks hollowing as she sucked it clean. The taste of his saliva made her cunt throb, and she felt his cock spasming inside her again. She wondered how long his knot would last, and her stomach tightened with pleasure.

Olaf groaned. “Shit, Violet. You—” Unable to find the words, he leaned forward and licked her weeping wound. 

Violet moaned, head falling back against his chest.

“Don’t be worried,” Violet rasped when she could speak. The sound of her voice shocked her more than anything else had. It was crackly and hoarse, the back of her throat sore and dry. She barely recognized it, but continued anyway. Her alpha was nervous about something and it was her job to fix it. “This is good.”

Olaf stiffened, leaning back, and hands finding her hips. It took some shimmying, but he was able to turn her around, still knotted on his cock. “You… remember everything?” 

His anxiety lessened, but only slightly. 

Violet hesitated before shaking her head. “No. But I’m okay. This is okay. I trust you.” From this position, Violet could see him better. He looked far more exhausted than she’d noticed before, and he had a bite of his own, above his collar bone, not quite on his neck. Pride swelled in Violet’s chest, and she reached forward to stroke it. 

It wasn’t bleeding anymore, but crusted over red-and-yellow. How long ago had she given it to him? She couldn’t remember. She hoped it would leave an awful scar.

Olaf watched her, finally pleased. “So you aren’t angry?”

Violet cocked her head, and leaned forward languidly until their chests were flush, her chin resting just about his clavicle. He smelled wonderful, all acrid, sharp smoke and hot sugar. And, of course, like her. 

“Why should I be?” She asked, and she meant it. Everything was perfect. 

It had been a while longer before Olaf’s knot deflated and she’d been able to slide off onto the bed, where she’d promptly fallen asleep. Olaf woke her up sometime later insisting she drink some water. She’d been thirstier than she’d realized, and he’d had to refill her glass three more times before she was sated. By then she could feel the overwhelming soreness throughout her whole body, and her stomach was throbbing with hunger. He’d disappeared again, returning with a serving bowl filled with fruit, all of it just over-ripe and dripping sweet. They ate together, lying naked on the bed. He fed her and she sucked the juice off his fingers dutifully, the action sending happy flutters through her. There was no need to talk— they shared each other’s satisfaction in a visceral way, as though a tether had sprouted up from the center of her chest and rooted itself in his. 

Violet had never been so happy in her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos are good and comments are better! I love to hear what you think!


	3. part iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for serious dub-con. Once again, please make sure you've checked the tags, thank you!

“Good morning,” Violet greets, then lifts a hand to cover her yawn. She’s gotten dressed today, in one of the outfits that had magically appeared for her in the large walk-in closet of the master bedroom. It’s light blue with a low, lace accented collar and bell sleeves. Pearlescent buttons line the front, and the skirt bursts from high on her waist, swishing around her knees as she walks. She hadn’t been bothered to put socks on, so she stands barefoot before her mate, floorboards cool beneath her soles. Olaf glances up from his newspaper, taking her in. He smiles, eyes bright as a knife.

“Don’t you look lovely,” he says, setting the paper down. She joins him, ducking under his arm and perching herself confidently on his lap. He’s gotten dressed too, wearing a light grey henley and black slacks. As always, he looks delectable. 

“Thank you,” she says, smiling herself until she sees her own pale face staring up at her from the paper. 

“Terrible Mistake or True Love?” reads the title. And smaller, below that, “Oldest Omega Orphan Takes a Mate in Count Olaf.” She scans the first column, heart sinking. 

_Count Olaf, recently voted most eligible bachelor for those with specific and questionable tastes by the readers of the Daily Punctilio, is in fact a bachelor no longer! Just last night an anonymous source reported to us that he has taken a mate, Violet Baudelaire, daughter of deceased actress Beatrice Baudelaire and heir to the Baudelaire fortune. Everyone knows the manipulative nature of omegas and their obsession with having an alpha to twist around their finger. So what luck is it that the Baudelaires— Violet specifically— ended up in the care of one of the most well known alphas in the city area?_

_Well, our source suspects it wasn’t luck at all! It’s been discovered that the Baudelaire orphans were supposed to live with their closest living relative upon their parents death — and that relative is not the count! We were unable to get in contact with either of the newly mated pair for comment, but a helpful neighbor reported that it has been two weeks since she has seen either Violet or the Count leave the house. Apparently, no paperwork was filed ahead of time either, which could lead to legal trouble for the poor Count in the future. Was this part of Baudelaire’s plan, or just an unfortunate side effect?_

_The main question on everyone’s mind is: Just how far does Baudelaire’s scheme go and what does she want with Count Olaf?_

“I wasn’t scheming,” Violet says in a small voice, lip trembling. She knows it’s stupid to cry, but she’s just been so emotional lately.

Olaf shrugs, unconcerned. “You are _now.”_ His teeth graze along the still-healing mark on her neck, and her eyelids flutter with pleasure. Before she can so much as breath, he stands up, pushing her forward onto the table. The newspaper flutters to the floor.

“What?” She tries to stand, but he leans forward, arms caging her. 

“You’re scheming now, aren’t you?”

His breath smells like coffee, all earthy and sweet. Violet wiggles her hips, trying to escape him. “I’m not!”

He chuckles and nips at her neck again. His voice is baritone and soft, and Violet can feel a growing slickness between her thighs. “Sure you are! Why else would you get all dressed up, so bright and early? You’re trying to butter me up, little sneak.” He kisses her mark and she breathes out a moan.

He is, technically, correct. Klaus invited her over to Justice Strauss’ house again, so she could try Sunny’s cooking for lunch. Violet hadn’t left the property in the past few weeks since her heat, and Olaf won’t be happy with the request to do so. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insists, squirming harder. It’s frustrating how easily he can manhandle her, but she loves it. He is so strong, her alpha. She’s lucky.

“And now you’re _lying?_ I thought you’d promised to be my good girl, Violet.” He tuts, and, planting one hand firmly between her shoulder blades, straightens.

“I don’t remember anything about that,” she says, smiling, a wisp of excitement igniting in her chest like a flicked on lighter flame. 

“No? Maybe I can jog your memory.” 

With his free hand, Olaf pushes her light blue skirt up around her waist, where it rests on the table top in a soft heap. The pale pink skin of her legs prickles at the cool air, and she shifts in place. The downstairs is far too drafty, but Olaf takes no notice of her discomfort. He also seems not to care that they are at the head of the dining room table, perfectly exposed to anyone who might happen to walk by. 

Klaus and Sunny had moved back in the day after his fight with Violet, though they still spend most of their time at Justice Strauss’. Klaus hadn’t said a word, but at Violet’s insistence Olaf had led them to one of the large and far more comfortable guest bedrooms instead of the derelict attic. He thought she didn’t notice that he’d chosen the one furthest away from his own bedroom, but in reality she just didn’t mind. She preferred privacy, and Klaus and Sunny surely appreciated not having to hear her and Olaf having sex, which they’d been doing quite often. Klaus could barely look her in the eye as it was, and she’d hate to exacerbate the situation. 

That is why when Olaf nudges her legs further apart with his knee, it occurs to her to be anxious, mind suddenly racing with unsavory possibilities. “Let’s go upstairs?” She asks, turning her head to look at him. She can’t. Instead she stares at one of the silver sconces on the wall, cheeks red.

“I don’t think so,” he sings, voice light with amusement, and his fingers are warm as they trace up her thigh. 

“We have to!” Violet says, pushing up against the hand on her back, serious now. It doesn’t matter, he still holds her there with ease. “Someone could see!”

“ _Violet,_ ” Olaf says, his voice low. Violet clings to her anxiety, but he presses slightly harder, voice dripping like honey when he says “ _It will be fine,_ ” and she can’t seem to remember what she was so worried about.

  
  


She really is too sweet. The house is empty—the orphan brats left for Strauss’ house as soon as the sun rose. He’d heard the boy plodding down the stairs not long after he’d woken, while Violet was still asleep. 

Violet’s panties are soaked, as they always seem to be. He runs his finger over the obvious wet spot on the cotton and her breath hitches, back aching as she tries to push her hips into him. 

“You’re so needy,” Olaf says, voice light with fond exasperation. The hand keeping her pinned creeps higher until it’s wrapped around her neck and he takes the moment to admire his mate. She is cute, cheek smushed into the tabletop, pushing against his grip in an obligatory and valiant attempt at escape.

He wonders what she’s planning to ask him for. She can play dumb all she wants but he knows a scheme when he sees one. She hates wearing dresses almost as much as he likes seeing her in them, so she isn’t nearly as sneaky as she might think. Not that he minds. Not at all.

“Stop- teasing- me!” She gasps, so he obliges, pulling her underwear to the side and sliding a finger through her slickness. She is hot and inviting, whining greedily as he touches her. The sight of her like this, knowing she is like this for him alone is enough to make him half hard already. 

Being mated is not like Olaf imagined. He had looked forward to it once upon a time. After giving up on the idea, he still fantasize about what he’d do with a mate. He imagined total control, some pretty young thing to bend to his every whim with a "Yes, Alpha" and be his own mindless sex slave.

Violet does obey him, especially when he uses that special tone of voice that omegas seemed to find impossible to resist, and she calls him "Alpha" plenty when they’re fucking, which they do plenty _,_ but it is nothing like anything he has ever heard described before. Or, rather, the descriptions had not even begun to capture the intensity of the relationship. He had expected to take (her body, her devotion, her very soul) but he had not expected to _give_ so much in return. 

He cares about her. He has never cared about how clocks worked, or ovens or whatever other stupid thing she decided to take apart, but when she was talking about it it might as well be the most interesting thing he’s ever heard. And she listened too, enraptured as he performed monologues for her, or read new pages of a script he was working on. 

Beneath his hand she squirms, moans like music as he finds her clit and begins to rub it gently, lost in introspection. People think alphas had all the power in the relationship, but he'd argue the opposite is true. He would do anything for Violet. He would die for her. There is no doubt in his mind. He wouldn't hesitate, there are no terms or conditions. It is just a fact. She could leave him now and never speak to him again and it will still be completely and unequivocally true. He has never felt that for anyone. While he is fairly sure she feels the same and had no plans to abandon him, it is strangely humbling. 

“Olaf!” Violet cries, he realizes she is coming already, trembling on unsteady legs as he makes her ride the orgasm to completion. 

When he is fairly sure she’s finished, he pulls his hand away and wipes his fingers on his pants. He isn’t done with her yet, not nearly, but she still hasn’t asked him her question. If she does now, he’ll probably agree to whatever it is and fuck her so good she won’t be able to walk for the rest of the day. If she doesn’t, well… he’ll still do the same, but he isn’t going to let her come again until she’s crying for it. Or she changes her mind. Really, it’s up to her. 

“Jog your memory, yet?” he asks, voice like silk as he bends over her, lips against her ear. She’s breathing heavy, lips parted, and pride warms in Olaf’s stomach. She blinks at him, slow and delicate as butterflies wings, and her lips stretch into a grin. 

“I’m afraid it’ll take more than that, old man,” she snipes, and he gasps in mock outrage even as his eyes crinkle. 

“I am not _old!”_ he insists, yanking her underwear down her now-damp thighs. 

She giggles as she lifts one foot and then the other so he can take them off, pushing herself up to lean on her forearms now that he isn’t pinning her down. “Prove it!” She challenges, big blue eyes twinkling.

And that’s all the consent he needs to do his worst. He frees his cock, grasps her hips, and pushes into her in a quick movement. There is little resistance. She’s drenched now, and still so, so tight. She squeaks as he pushes deeper, letting out a low moan as she grinds back to meet him. There is nothing remotely as good as the feeling of being inside her. He’s had sex in his life, lots of it, but it’s nothing like this. It’s ascendant, every nerve in his body buzzing with blooming pleasure. Every second spent not inside her is a waste of his time. 

It takes a second for him to collect himself enough to move, reaching forward into her thick hair, wrapping it in his hand so he can pull her head up. The other hand creeps around her hip, digging into the yielding flesh. 

“You really are desperate, aren’t you?” He asks, voice a husky growl. “Getting me to fuck you right here on the table where anyone can see you.” It’s easy to slip into cruelty and he loves the way her cunt tightens at his words. She enjoys it too, when he degrades her. Far more than she lets on. Why else would she continue to undulate against him, practically drooling on the table. He can feel her pleasure swirling in the knot of her emotion that rests constant in the back of his head, and he can smell it, coming off her in waves of apricot, vanilla, saffron, sweet.

With a final roll of his hips, she gasps as his length enters her fully. “I- I asked to go upstairs!” she argues, trying to turn her head away from the archway at the front of the room. He tugs her hair a little harder, regretful that he can’t see the arch of her neck from his angle. 

“Oh, but you didn’t really want to.” She squeaks again as he begins to pull out. It is slow as he can manage, the drag of her walls like velvet around him. He reaches to toy with her clit. She gasps, legs shaking, still sensitive from her previous orgasm. He wonders how long she can hold out before she starts crying. “Why else would you come down dressed like a little tease and flirt with me so shamelessly, unless you wanted me to bend you over right here? Is there another reason _you_ can think of?” 

She shakes her head, little liar, but she’s moaning. It would be a boring game if she told him now, when they were just getting started, anyways. Her walls flex around the half of his cock still inside of her, and his breath catches. “It’s okay, I know you can’t help it,” he tells her, watching her cute ass wriggling. It’s a lovely sight. There are two tiny brown freckles on her left buttcheek. He wonders if she knows they’re there.

Smirking, he pushes forward, watches the pink stroke of her cunt stretch, and swallows a groan. Doesn’t matter if she does, it’s enough for him to know, and he’s learning every inch of her. “You’re just a little omega whore, it’s your nature. Everyone knows that.” His voice is soft and all mock sympathy and Violet moans again.

“That’s not true—”

“But here we are.” He leans over, buried inside of her once more, and pinches her clit. “I’m fucking you on our dining room table and you’re begging for it.”

She is gasping, overwhelmed, though the shame of it doesn’t stop the movement of her hips. “I’m- not—ah… I’m not begging!” she manages, and he starts his process over with a smirk.

“Not yet. But you will be. You won’t be able to help yourself!” Her face is so red he can tell even from behind her. She could stop his words at any time if she’d just tell him the real reason she’d dressed up. Not that he thinks what he’s saying is untrue. She’s an omega and his mate, of course she wants to be fucked by him!

Body shaking, she tries to hold still, whimpering under her breath and tight as ever, but he rubs her a clit again. He moans. “Just admit it. Just say you’re just my little omega whore. You’ll feel better.” 

His words are cruel, he knows it from the white hot flame of her shame licks against his skull. But underneath it there is arousal, as poignant and encompassing as any poison.

  
  


Violet doesn’t know how he makes her go so dumb. She should be arguing with him, should make him stop and take her somewhere else, but all she can do is rock her hips against the table, trying to muffle the myriad of sounds that fall from her lips. 

He’s inching into her again, excruciatingly slow, and every time his fingers touch her they’re teasing, soft as rose petals and all red hot lust. He’s being mean because he wants her to tell him why she wore the dress, she knows this, but his degradation slices her like thorns. She spent years at school ignoring the same words from bullies and teachers, so to hear them from her mate who she loves is…a lot. 

She braces herself, teeth digging into her bottom lip as her chest pulses with emotions she isn’t sure what to do with. Surely he can feel how much his words affect her. But he doesn’t stop. Instead he strokes his finger through her wetness, from the place where he’s inside her up to her clit, and she’s finding it more and more difficult to separate the arousal from the upset.

“ _Violet.”_ His voice is a growl as he leans over her, her mark tingling as his breath brushes over it. “ _Say it.”_

The whole room smells like them now, like sex and sweet and spice. She loves the smell of him, her alpha. He’s all autumn spices, liquor, and a struck match. When he scents her—by rubbing one of his scent glands against one of hers— she can smell him when he isn’t with her. She’ll lie on the couch for hours some days, holding the soft underside of her wrist up to her nose and breathing him. 

“I—” She grows dumber by the second. Sex is like a switch that turns her brain off. She is usually good with words, always has been, but rational thought disappears as soon as he uses that tone of voice or touches her skin. He’s still teasing her, working her up, and she’s positive she is dripping onto the floor between her feet. She doesn't want to prove him right by begging, but every time her release seems to crest the horizon, his fingers disappear from her clit and he’s pulling out of her again, oh so slow. Tears of frustration and embarrassment prick the behind her eyes, and she presses her ribcage into the table, breasts painfully sensitive pressed beneath her as she arches her back.

“ _Vio-let,”_ he says again, and damn it all, that breaks her.

“Please,” she whimpers, and a tear slides down her burning cheek. “Olaf— I need—please don’t tease me anymore, I can’t—”

“Only good girls get to come,” He says deviously. “And if I remember correctly, you don’t know anything about that, do you?” She squeals as he pinches her clit and yanks her hair at once, forcing her once again to stare forward, down the long table. The empty chairs stare back at her, and she imagines she makes quite the main dish, pink and contorted as she is. All she needs now is an apple in her mouth and a pretty silver platter.

“I’m sorry, I lied, I’m sorry! I’m your good girl, I want to be your good girl,” she agrees, crying. He pinches her again, fully inside her now. She’s stretched out and full and she just wants him to fuck her for real already!

“Begging, hm? What did I say?” Olaf asks her, and the laughter in his voice makes her chest constrict. “Little. Omega. Whore.”

Violet nods, miserable. The game has tilted sideways, suddenly sour, and she isn’t having fun. Why he isn’t stopping to comfort her. Or starting to fuck her. She doesn’t know what she wants, it’s just too much! Her mind swims. Why is she so stupid? “ _Yes!_ I’m just- I’m just your omega whore. Please— I’m sorry, Alpha— just please—”

He stiffens a split second before the front door slams. There is a moment of vertigo—The intricate floral brocade of the dark green wallpaper seems to slide southward towards the warping floor—and then a rushing in her ears as if underwater and she can’t breath. Footsteps sound off like gunshots, and Violet tries to stand, panic lancing through her breastbone. Instead her face slams into the tabletop. She gasps, cheekbone radiating pain. Olaf’s hand is no longer tangled in her hair, but wrapped around her neck from behind, pinning her once more in place. The bodice of her dress has become twisted, and the buttons dig into her ribs like nails through the wood.

Olaf leans over her, and out of the corner of her panicked eye, she sees him holding a shiny finger to his lips. The footsteps are in the room adjacent now, a sitting room that entertained guests once upon a time. They are far too heavy to be either of her siblings, but that does not make her any less terrified. She tries to shake her head, but succeeds only in mushing her cheek against the table. Between her legs, Olaf’s fingers return, rubbing tight circles she has no way to escape from. So sensitive already from his teasing, she can’t help but whimper. The footsteps stop, but Olaf doesn’t. 

“...Hello?” The voice is masculine, one she does not recognize. Shoulders shaking, she presses a hand over her mouth, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip. Olaf is still inside her, still playing with clit, and her walls tighten around him. His breath hitches. The footsteps resume. It hits Violet that whoever this person is, they’re taking the back stairs behind the kitchen up to the second floor. They’ll be directly above the dining room, then. 

_Leave!_ She wills them away with all her might, but her assumption proves true instead. They trudge up the stairs and the echoed sound footsteps overhead makes her start to shake. Tears slide down her cheeks, and the taste of blood is metallic on her tongue. She doesn’t want anyone to see her like this and she can’t understand why a stranger is plodding through the house. Another whimper escapes her. 

  
  


“Shh, shhh,” Olaf quiets the omega beneath him, shifting his grip on her neck. She hasn’t stopped shaking since they heard the front door open. Why one of his stupid asociates is stomping around his house at 9:00 am in the morning, he has no idea, but no matter. If Violet stays quiet they can keep playing and if she doesn’t, he’ll deal with it then. Frankly, he is too horny to care. The smell of her is thicker and sweeter than a garden in bloom and it makes him heady and single minded. If this keeps up, she might trigger a rut, and then they’ll be busy all day. Can she handle him in rut if she isn’t in heat? He isn’t sure. He supposed if it happens they’ll find out.

Slowly, testingly, he starts to rock out of her and his cock throbs. She gasps, whole body tensing as if to keep him from moving and crackled noise rips from the back of his throat. He can’t take it anymore. 

Giving no warning, Olaf thrusts inside her. She cries out, shock and icy fear flooding through their bond, the arm not muffling her mouth slamming down beside her. He grins, strained as he fucks her harder, building up speed as he goes. “Good girls keep quieter than that,” he says, watching her fingernails scrape against the table as it rocks beneath them. He rubs unyieldingly at her clit, surveying her with pride. She’s balancing on her tiptoes, has been the whole time, he realizes. Somehow that is what pushes him over the edge, and he yanks Violet’s hair, feels his balls tighten. He grunts, but is otherwise quiet.This isn’t the first time he’s played a game like this one. 

Violet however, squeals shrilly as her head is wretched up, not quite able to re-cover her mouth fast enough. He doesn’t stop the movement of fingers as his cock spasms inside her. Static crowds his head, buzzing white that fades to pink and veins on the backs of his eyelids. His heart thuds in his ears and he inhales deeply, satisfied. A sour note cuts through Violet’s sticky sweetness, and his eyes fly open. 

In a fraction of a second, he has spun her around, falling back into the head chair with her on his lap, one hand cradling her head to his chest. She yelps in confusion, but freezes at the creak of floorboards nearby.

Olaf breathes, tries to calm himself as his associate rounds the doorway. 

“Oh! Boss! I didn’t realize…” Olaf watches as they catch sight of Violet in his arms. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine,” he growls. Silently, he thanks whatever god is watching that Violet is wearing a skirt long enough it covers her, that he won’t have to murder an ally today. The adrenaline from almost being caught cancels out any relief that he might have gained from his release.

As soon as he names the feeling— _anxiety—_ annoyance strikes him instead. Why is he worried about having sex with his own mate in his own house? “What do you want?” He asks haughtily as possible, staring down the table at them. Hidden from sight, Olaf’s hand creeps beneath Violet’s skirt. She stiffens, whimpers, and he fights a smile as he feels his come dribbling out of her. She’s molten hot and swollen with arousal. He slides two fingers into her easily, and is gratified when her hands tighten around the fistfuls of his shirt. She shifts as surreptitiously as possible, pressing her face harder against his chest as if she wishes his ribs will crack open and swallow her whole.

“Ah, well, I wanted to pick up some of the costumes for alteration.” His associate holds up a molded cardboard box, which sure enough seems to be filled with fabric. “I knocked but no one answered, so… I figured you weren’t here. I didn’t mean to uh, bother you.” They shift in place as Olaf just stares at them eyebrow raised. On his lap, Violet lets out an almost inaudible whimper. He curls his fingers against her spongy insides then spreads them apart, stretching her. 

His associate stands obliviously, box in their arms. “So um, we were wondering—the troupe and I, that is—if we could get here a little earlier, get in a bit of rehearsal before dinner? The twins wanted to go over that last scene again, the one they were having trouble with. I could probably have their costumes finished by then, if you wanted to have them test them out.” 

Violet, his brave girl, is doing an admirable job. She can’t help from squirming a little, but the movement is mostly in her hips, her upper body staying stone still. Her breasts press against him, soft through her dress. Shame he can’t touch them. He makes a note to get them some special attention later. 

The noises she makes as he continues to masturbate her are only loud enough for him to hear, hiccups and tiny gasps. He can’t see her face, but he imagines her biting down on her lip, nose scrunched with effort, and there is a tingle of interest in his pelvis. Keeping his expression neutral, he rubs his thumb through her slickness until he finds her clit, which he presses in rhythm with the fingers inside her. Her legs jerk, curled toes scraping his legs.

“I don’t see why not,” Olaf says evenly, as if he isn’t fingering a girl on his lap, as if his dick isn’t once again twitching with interest. The sharp edge of risk has him giddy, and he’s drunk on it. He is going to make her come before his associate leaves, he’s decided that much already. Part of him wants her to get caught, to scream his name while she cums on his hand in front of a stranger. The other part wants her to stay silent and trembling, a dirty secret shared just between the two of them. Either way it’s up to her. If nothing else, it’ll prove his earlier point. And it’s not like his associate can see anything from where they stand, even if they are to become privy to the situation. “Did you get everything you need?” Olaf asks them. He’s being far more patient than he normally would be, trying to draw the conversation out. 

“Yes. For now. I’ll work on the rest as we get closer to the opening night. Um...” They seem uneasy, squinting up the long room. “Is she alright?”

Olaf allows himself a smile at this. Violet’s grip on his shirt tightens and her skin is damp with perspiration, radiating heat. Not as hot as her _heat_ heat, no, but because she’s holding off her climax by willpower alone now. Impressive, actually. “Yes, she’s fine,” he says, looking down at the top of her head. He moves the hand cradling it so that he can stroke her hair. “She’s just shy. We weren’t expecting anyone until this evening, you see.”

They nod. “Oh, I’m sorry. I just meant grab what I needed and go. Didn’t mean to uh, frighten anyone.”

Olaf, still smiling, leans down so his lips are beside her ear. He slides a third finger inside of her, which she takes with a groan of alarm. 

“Hear that, pet? They didn’t mean to frighten you.” 

Whether it’s the fullness of the third finger, the nickname, or just the sound of his voice he doesn’t know, but she comes, cunt spasming as a long whine drawing from the back of her throat. He continues his ministrations, only hums in what he hopes sounds like concern (though it’s just appreciation) as he forces her to ride it to completion.

Oblivious, his associate shuffles backwards. “I’m sorry. I’ll- I’ll be back tonight, then. Uh, goodbye.”

Olaf nods, focus never leaving the trembling girl on his lap. “See you,” he says, and as they disappear Violet finally falls still. He regrets not being able to see her expression as she came, wonders if it was more shame or pleasure. “You came so hard, my good girl,” he says softly. After that, she’s earned her nickname again. He pulls his hand out from beneath her, wondering at the shiny slickness on it. “Was it because they were watching you? Do you like coming in front of strangers? Do you like them looking at you?”She doesn’t respond. “I don’t mind,” he admits. And he doesn’t, not as much as he thought he would. It makes sense, he has always been a bit voyeuristic and he certainly enjoys showing off his things. “It’s okay. So long as I’m the one touching you.” Violet finally pulls away from his chest, though her hands stay balled in the fabric. His smile falls. 

Her whole face is red, her cheeks and nose especially. Tears drip down her cheeks and chin from her glassy, swollen eyes. She looks awful. “Um…” she murmurs, ignorant of the ice that washes down his spine. “I think- let’s not do that again.” Her voice is soft and sweet as a kitten’s, and hushed as if she’s still scared of being heard. Her lower lip is puffy and bleeding from where she bit into it to keep quiet. Her whole body trembles, and she stares straight ahead at his chest. “Please,” she amends, polite as always. 

“Violet?” He asks, staring at her, but she still won’t look him in the eye. Even before he prods at their bond with his mind, he knows he’s taken things too far. She’s just so sweet and so _new._ How could he not lose control? 

Olaf doesn’t do “guilt.” He has a few regrets, sure, things he wishes he’d done differently. But no guilt. Never guilt. That being said, it’s difficult to ignore the curdling of sour emotion in his gut as the bond unravels under his attention. Uncertainty hits him first, then fear, then shame. They’re all so strong his muscles seize for a moment, stunning him into stillness. He would have expected anger, would have known how to deal with it, would have asked “If you hated it so much, why didn’t you stop me? Why did you come?” But there is none, only the pain of confusion and fear that she misunderstood him. That _she_ did something wrong, because she didn’t like it, because she thinks he’ll be disappointed in her. It hits like a punch in the gut. 

“ _Violet,”_ he says again.

Their eyes meet, and her’s pool with concern. “Are… Are you okay?” she asks. Softly bewildered, she reaches up a small hand to cup his cheek. In the movement he sees red slivers across her palm and knows it’s from her finger nails. He chokes over an inhale, panic sprouting up inside his lungs, drowning him. How could he do that to her?

Her eyes widen, and she’s sliding her arms beneath his, hugging him as tightly as she can. “Don’t cry,” she says, trying to comfort him, though her whole body still tremors. “Please, what’s wrong?” 

At that he’s lost for a moment. _She’s_ comforting _him?_ His chest shudders. His arms creep up, engulfing her. She is so small, he’s afraid his touch will break her. 

“Whatever you want,” he says when he is able. “Whatever you were going to ask for, I don’t care.”

Violet pulls away to look at him, brow furrowed with worry. “I…” She touches his cheek again, wipes away his tears. “I wanted to go to Justice Strauss’ house for lunch with Klaus and Sunny.” The still quietness of her voice makes his stomach churn. He knows why she’d been hesitant to ask him. If she had asked earlier, he would have said no. He doesn’t trust those brats or that insipid woman. 

He sits back, pushing her away from him. He doesn’t trust himself either. “Go,” he says, though what he wants more than anything is for her to stay. 

As she leaves, Violet pauses in the archway, swaying on her feet. Her hesitancy swirls through him, but he ignores it. “Go!” She shouldn’t be near him. He needs to think, he needs to do better—

“Olaf!” He jerks up, and Violet’s running up to him. Before he can move, she pushes up on her tiptoes, hands braced on his thighs, and pressed her lips against his. “Thank you. I promise I’ll be back. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my day! <3


	4. part iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little under-edited compared to my usual and fairly PG. Sorry about that. The next two chapters are spicy so hopefully that will make up for it.

Violet takes a deep breath and steps up to the cashier. She places a plastic wrapped bouquet of bright yellow flowers, a bag of carrots, and a small box with a sleek blue-and-white design onto the counter.

The cashier, a middle aged woman with auburn hair and thick silver glasses, looks Violet over with an unimpressed quirk of her brow. Her name tag reads “Linda” with the words “Cashier” smaller underneath. Violet hasn’t seen her here before.

“Hello, Linda,” Violet says. The woman does not reply, but grabs the flowers, turning them over in her hands until she can find the barcode sticker. The clear plastic crinkles, and some water drips from the bottom, landing on the box below. She scans them with a beep. “Not too busy today, is it?” Violet asks. 

The small grocery store is near empty, aside from her, Linda, and two older women who discuss the latest tabloids in hushed tones. In the past two months, Violet has frequented this grocery many times. It’s within walking distance to the house, and while Olaf told her he didn’t mind her going around by herself, she knows he prefers she stay nearby. Lunches at Justice Strauss’s are a regular occurrence now—Sunny’s cooking skills are improving from “good” to outright astonishing—and Violet probably would have limited herself to that outing alone if Olaf could be trusted to keep the house in order. Frankly, she had no idea how he’d gone on so long by himself.

Using some old scraps she’d found out in the shed, she had built a few new inventions to help out. She’d fixed up one in the kitchen to make a simple breakfast of eggs and toast at the push of a button and another machine out back that could hang up wet clothes on the clothesline without assistance. Her personal favorite was a system that sorted mail on it’s own while simultaneously brewing individual cups of tea. She still had to make weekly trips down to the post office and grocery store to drop off and pick up necessities and some leisure trips to the local library. Machines couldn’t do _everything,_ after all.

Linda scans the back of carrots. They join the flowers in a brown paper bag beside the register. Linda looks at the little white box. She looks back at Violet. “I can’t sell you this,” she says.

Violet blinks. “I’m sorry?”

Linda punches a button on the cash register and holds out a hand to Violet. “Your total is fifteen dollars and twenty eight cents.”

The little box in question is birth control. They keep it locked up with the other medications but the pharmacist had been happy enough to give her a box when she asked. Most suppressors mitigated the chance of pregnancy anyway, but Violet liked to be prepared. Better safe than sorry, after all, and she wasn’t sure how being mated would affect her next heat so having something a little stronger couldn’t hurt.

Though she shouldn’t go into heat again for at least another month, Violet felt bloated all week and a heavy, lethargic pressure had taken up residence right behind her forehead. Normally for her, symptoms of an oncoming heat were nausea and fever, but nothing was normal anymore so she couldn’t discount the possibility.

“Why can’t you sell it to me?” Violet asks, brows furrowed. “Do you need to see ID?” She never bought this sort of thing herself before, but she couldn’t remember either of her parents ever having to give any identification.

Linda looks her over, expression still deadpan. The gum in her mouth snaps. “How’s this,” she says. “I _won’t_ sell those to you. Your total is fifteen dollars and twenty eight cents.”

Anxiety flutters up her arms to burn pins and needles-like behind her sternum. Her brow furrows further. “What do you mean you ‘won’t’ sell it to me?” She asks, voice raising in pitch. Her heart beats faster.

Linda rolls her eyes. “I know you’re an omega, I saw you in the paper. If your alpha wants you to have these, he’ll come pick them up himself. I’m not selling them to you.”

Violet’s stomach flips and she reaches up to comb her fingers through the hair lying over her shoulder, checking that it covers her mark. Her eyes skim across the rack of papers and magazines. The way Linda is looking at her makes her want to sink through the floor. Over by the magazine rack, the two elderly women have fallen silent, and she can feel the intensity of their stares.

“You can’t refuse to sell something to someone because you don’t want to,” Violet says, forcing her voice to stay steady. “And how I handle my body is nobody’s business but my own!”

Linda glances over at the elderly women as if to say, ‘Can you believe this?’ Looking back at Violet she asks, “Are you gonna pay or not?” and mutters something rather nasty under her breath.

Violet’s cheeks flush and her fingernails cut into the palms of her hands. “Calling me names is rude and incredibly unprofessional,” she says, though her voice shakes this time. Tears well in her eyes, but she fights them down. One of the elderly women whispers something to the other. 

Linda’s cheeks redden. “I didn’t call—”

“You called me a whiny slut, I heard you,” Violet snaps. One of the eavesdropping women gasps. Violet takes a deep breath. “I don’t want the flowers anymore. Goodbye.” She walks out the door with her back ruler straight, ignoring Linda’s attempted explanations behind her. 

The walk home is spent in silent contemplation. Violet gnaws at her lower lip, seething. Her face burns. She clenches and unclenches her fists, unable to focus on anything but Linda’s scornful voice. A lump in the back of her throat won’t disappear. She wants to scream.

She’s so focused on kicking a small pebble over and over ahead of her, that she doesn’t see Olaf practically until he grabs her. 

“Violet! Are you okay, are- are you hurt?” His face is pale aside from pink splotches high on his cheekbones, and some strands of hair hang down over his eyes. He is out of breath.

“I’m fine, what’s wrong, what happened?” she asks, glancing around. The house looks fine, he looks fine, everything looks fine. 

“Well, I—” He pulls back, looking her over. “I don’t know, I just— ten minutes ago I felt you get so upset! I’ve just been—” he pauses, dragging a hand across his mouth. “—pacing out here! I didn’t know what happened!”

Seeing him so worried over her is endearing, but her stomach clenches with annoyance. Ever since the incident in the dining room some weeks ago, he tunes into their bond almost always, monitoring for any sort of distress. She didn’t mind at first, but she wishes she could keep some emotions to herself.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Violet says, smoothing her sweaty hands against the legs of her overalls. If she gets irritated he will too, and she doesn’t want to fight with him. Still too sore over the slight at the store to tell him what actually happened, her mind grinds for some alternate explanation. If she says nothing, he’ll never let it go. 

“I got into a little argument with the cashier, is all.”

“An argument?” Olaf’s eyes narrow. “About what?”

Violet swallows. “Oh, you know, just… sale prices.”

“Sale prices.”

She shrugs. He purses his lips and takes a step back. 

“What did you buy?”

Violet looks down at the pebble between them, crossing her arms. “Oh. Well, nothing. We couldn’t come to an agreement.”

Olaf squints, unconvinced, and reaches for her with one hand. “I didn’t realize local groceries allowed haggling. Why don’t you tell me more inside the house.”

He’s still nervous, wants her back somewhere safe, but Violet ducks out of his reach, already shaking her head. “ We have a lunch date. You promised!” Just the night before she had waited until he was drunk and already half asleep to ask him if he’d please come with her to her daily luncheon with Justice Strauss and her siblings, and finally he’d agreed. He wasn’t the biggest fan of her siblings and outright hated the judge and “meddling” but Violet thought it would be good for everyone to learn to get along.

Though he grumbled, offering alternate activities and half hearted excuses, they did cross the street to Justice Strauss’ house, where they began a relatively lovely lunch. As lovely as a lunch could be, considering the guests were Klaus, Sunny, Justice Strauss, Olaf and Violet. Everyone was civil, at least, though most of the conversation was left to the ladies at the table, as Olaf wanted nothing to do with anyone there but Violet, Klaus wanted nothing to do with Olaf, and Sunny could only talk to her siblings.

“The food is delicious,” Violet says. They all have roast beef sandwiches, and on the table between them are bowls of pasta salad, regular salad, carrot-ginger soup, and potato chips. It is far more food then they could possibly be expected to eat, but Justice Strauss mentioned Sunny had been working with her on the meal all morning, so Violet tries a little of everything. All of it is perfectly cooked and seasoned.

“Weeble,” Sunny replies, which means “Thank you, Violet. We worked very hard on it.”

Violet smiles, and looks over at her brother, who is glaring down at his uneaten sandwich. “Klaus, did you help with anything?” 

His face twists into the same, sick expression he makes every time she speaks to him, and Violet tries to bury the flash of hurt in her chest She knows he’s upset, that he doesn’t understand yet, but she also knows he’ll come around.

“I set the table,” he says finally, sounding like he wished he hadn’t.

“In that case, you did a nice job too. Everything looks very neat.” It does. They are eating off of floral blue-and-white china dishes, each place set with a crystal glace and silver cutlery. Violet appreciates it. She can’t imagine they get used often

Klaus’ lips pinch, and he picks a wilting lettuce leaf on his sandwich. 

“She _said,_ ‘Everything looks very neat,’” Olaf growls.

Klaus glances up at him, eyes burning. “So what?” he spits.

Violet can’t help the way she sinks down in her seat, simmering with hurt. “It’s fine,” she starts to say, but Olaf pushes forward.

“When your sister gives you a compliment, you thank her.” His voice is a low rumble and Violet can tell he’s trying not to yell.

“He doesn’t have to thank me. Really, it’s fine—“

“It’s not _fine!”_ Violet’s eyes widen as Klaus shoves back his chair, glaring at her. “Nothing about this is fine!” he shouts, before pushing back his chair and dashing from the room. Violet stands too, spoon clattering against her soup bowl. 

“Oh dear,” Justice Strauss says, looking in the direction he ran. “Oh dear. That boy is so worried about you, Violet.” She takes the cream colored napkin off her lap and folds it beside her plate. “He’s probably gone to the library again. I... need to talk to Count Olaf about some things anyways, so why don’t you go find him?”

Violet glances at Olaf, who is glaring at the table, finger wrapping against the wood, but he says nothing to stop her so she heads off in search of her brother, picking up Sunny as she passes.

“Larch?” Sunny asks, meaning, “Is Klaus okay?”

Violet lip trembles as she tries to come up with an answer. “I hope so,” is the best she can do.

Klaus is in the library, just as Strauss had predicted. Violet puts Sunny down in one of the large, plush chairs, and joins him where he stands, pouring over a huge book with a dark leather cover. It lies in the middle of one of the round tables in the center of the room, surrounded by other books of various sizes, each open to different pages and covered with sticky notes scrawled in Klaus’s handwriting.

“What’s all this?” Violet asks, upbeat though her heart aches.

“Research,” Klaus answers shortly, and she catches sight of the title of the large book. It’s on mating laws.

“Klaus…” Violet starts, unsure of what to say. “I know you’re angry with me—“

“I’m not angry with you!” He slams the book shut and stalks away from her to scour one of the nearby shelves. She isn't sure if he’s actually looking for something or if it’s an excuse to avoid looking at her.

“Well… it seems like you are angry at me. And I wanted to apologize to you. Since we came here, I haven’t been there for you and Sunny like I should be. Nothing will ever change the fact that I’m still your big sister and I still have a responsibility to protect you and Sunny. I thought you would be better off staying with Justice Strauss for now, but if that isn’t the case, just tell me! If you don’t talk to me I can’t- how can I do better?” Her eyes glisten, but she’s managed not to cry.

She can’t say the same for Klaus, though, who has turned to stare at her with the most heartbroken expression she’s ever seen, tears streaming down his face. He grits his teeth for a moment, struggling to contain himself. 

“It’s not about _you._ ” 

“Oh.” Violet digests this, thinking of Olaf in the other room and wishing he and her brother had gotten off on a better foot. “You’re not fair to him, you know.”

“I-I’m not fair to him?” Klaus sputters. “Violet, he ra—”

“ _Stop!”_ she snaps. “I told you not to say that word. It wasn’t like that.” She can’t actually remember what “it” was like exactly, but Olaf would never do that to her. He just wouldn’t. She’s sure of it.

He clenches his jaw and stares down at his shoes, but doesn’t push her. “If he wins the court case, he’s going to get our parent’s money.”

Ah, the court case. It is about her, but she isn’t allowed to go most days like Olaf and her siblings do. She’s stood before the court twice, once to describe how her mating came to happen and again to describe how Olaf’s been treating her. Both incidents were humiliating, but still she thinks a case about her future is something she should be allowed to have more involvement in. Olaf told her they don’t want her there because she’s an omega and they’re afraid she’ll become too emotional. There is no way he’ll let them take her away from him, though, so she isn’t too worried. 

“Good,” Violet says. She hadn’t even thought about the money. “We can use it to fix up the house and replace some of the things we lost in the fire.”

“But don’t you see? He’s done this to you so he can steal our fortune! This is the only way it could be accessed before you turn eighteen!”

“Klaus, I don’t care! It’s not like that money was helping us from the bank, anyways. Now we’ll be able to use it.”

Red splotches on his cheeks give away his anger, but he tries a different tact. “It’s been almost two months and he’s barely let you come over at all! It’s not healthy. What happens when school starts? Do you think he’s just going to let you go?”

Violet stares at him, taken aback. “Of course he will. It’s school. And he lets me do whatever I want, I’m not his prisoner, I’m—” she cuts herself off before she can say the word “mate,” which will enrage him more. “He doesn’t like me coming over here because you act like this! I’ve gone shopping and to the library plenty of times, you’re just hiding here all the time so you don’t notice.”

Klaus looks guilty at this and shuffles in place, clearly at a loss. Violet sighs.

“How about next time I’m going out we can go together? I miss you, you know.”

Klaus’ lip trembles and without a word, he throws his arms around her. After a moment of surprise, Violet hugs him back, resting her cheek against his head. She does miss him. Before the fire they were together everyday. She’d always thought herself lucky to be so close with her younger siblings, especially when hearing others complain about how annoying their own were. 

“Are you really okay with all this?” Klaus asks against her shoulder.

Violet runs a hand through his hair, thinking about it. It isn’t what she planned, but she isn’t unhappy. She loves Olaf, and it could be much worse. It’s a wonder no one mated her sooner, or so Olaf had said. 

“I am. I know everything is changing and it’s scary but… we still have each other. And Olaf is doing his best as our guardian too. If you’d just give him a chance, I know—”

“Thank you, Violet.” Klaus pulls away from her and wipes his eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. If you let me know next time you’re going to the library, I’d like to go with you.”

She nods, smiling. He may not be ready to accept Olaf yet, but this is progress, at least. 

“Violet, we’re leaving.” They both turn to find Olaf standing in the doorway, clutching some crumpled papers in his hand. 

Her heart jumps with worry as anger and discomfort radiate off of him in ominous waves. Shooting Klaus an apologetic look, Violet hurries to him. “Did something happen?” she asks, but he waves a hand.

“My troupe is coming over. There are still things to get ready.” It is clear by the way his eyes glower around the library that his troupe has nothing to do with why he wants to leave but Violet doesn’t want to press him on it either.

“Alright, we can go.” She turns to Klaus and Sunny, who he’s picked up from the chair. “Please tell Justice Strauss we say thank you for lunch. I’ll… see you guys soon?” she asks. Olaf scowls, foot tapping as he glances over his shoulder at the door.

“Actually,” Klaus says. “I was thinking we’d come with you. I have some things I need to work on, and we’ve been bothering Justice Strauss day after day for long enough now. We’ve got a perfectly good bedroom at—” he stumbles, lips twisting like he tasted something bad. “—Olaf’s house, anyways.”

“Count Olaf,” the man snaps, bristling. “And no you may not come with us. As I said, my troupe is coming over. No place for whiny orphans.”

Violet shoots him a glare, but he doesn’t look at her. 

“No place for orphans? But my sister is going to be there? I bet Justice Strauss would find _that_ interesting.”

The paper in Olaf’s fist crinkles as his grip tightens, and Violet puts a hand on his shoulder. “They won’t bother you,” she tells him and he grits his teeth.

“Fine. But stay out of the way! It’d be awfully unfortunate if there was some sort of accident.” He turns on his heels and stalks away, and the children follow behind. 

“I bet Justice Strauss would be quite interested to hear about our guardian threatening us, too,” Klaus mutters, ignoring Violet's pleading eyes. 

Luckily, Olaf doesn’t overhear the comment—or, more unlikely, chooses to ignore it— and the four arrive back at his house with little issue. Klaus lets Justice Strauss know they’re leaving with a promise to visit soon, and he and Sunny disappear up to their room as soon they enter the house. 

Olaf seems to relax as soon as they are out of sight, leaning down to kiss Violet possessively on the lips.

“I don’t understand why they’re here!” he complains, flopping down on the couch. “I gave them a bigger bedroom like you asked, and I let them sleep here, so why are they bothering us now?”

He sounds like a petulant child, and Violet puts her hands on her hips. “They are my siblings and your wards. They have a right to be here. They aren’t bothering anyone.” She gestures around to the sibling-free room. “See?”

Olaf sighs and leans back, holding his arms out. Violet doesn’t need to be asked, climbing up onto his lap, her chest against his. He wraps his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. “I prefer when it’s just the two of us,” he mumbles, and she laughs. It’s hard to get mad at him when he says sweet things.

When he kisses her again, she kisses back, holding his face in her hands. She’s gotten much better at kissing over the last six weeks. Her nose hardly ever crashes into his anymore, and she’s finally gotten a handle on what she’s supposed to be doing with her hands.

“You know, it’s kind of hot to hear you defending me,” he tells her when she pauses to catch her breath.

She blinks, mind blanking. “What?”

“To your brother,” he clarifies.

Cold creeps up her neck. “You listened to us?” 

“Yeah, I was waiting outside the door.” He says it so flippantly, as if it’s a normal thing to do, she almost thinks she’s misunderstood. 

But she hasn’t. Irritation itches at her, and she pulls away from him, cheeks red with displeasure. “That was a private conversation!”

He scoffs and tries to kiss her again. She evades him, glaring, and he leans back against the couch with a sigh. “You're my mate. You don’t get private conversations from me.”

Her heart hammers in her chest, and she pulls away from him, lips pinching. He’s looking at her so calmly, as if nothing is wrong and what he’s done isn’t a horrible breach of her privacy and she’s the one who is out of line. “Fine!” She stands and yanks her fingers through the hair he just tangled. “I’m going to take a bath. I guess if you need me you can just come in and get me,” she shouts as she stomps off down the hall, leaving him bewildered on the couch behind her. “Since I don’t get the dignity of privacy from you anymore!”

Olaf doesn’t understand what he did wrong. He could have guessed she wouldn’t have appreciated his eavesdropping—though really, he’s her mate, what could she have to hide from him?—but her transformation from her usual warm self to ferocious seems a little excessive. Maybe she was still on edge from whatever happened at the grocery store earlier. Or her brat brother, always stressing her out with one thing or another. It was a good thing that that problem would be taken care of soon.

Olaf doesn’t go after her, still a bit irritated himself. The idiotic court case was going well, but Justice what-ever-her-name and the boy Baudelaire and Jaquelyn, of all people, were giving their best effort into getting Violet taken away from him. It was truly absurd. 

So, maybe he had taken advantage of the situation a little when he mated Violet. Maybe he could have controlled himself and left her there to howl alone in her room— who’s to say? Either way, it doesn’t matter now. He’d spirit her away to Brazil before he’d let anyone else touch her, and if they somehow did manage to get her away from him, he is pretty sure he would die.

At least his nosy neighbor isn’t the one deciding the case. She is too involved to be impartial or something like that. She made it quite clear she did not agree with his and Violet’s “relationship,” as if it was any of her business to begin with. He couldn’t wait to get the whole thing over with so he could get on spending his new enormous fortune and fucking his mate in peace.

As Olaf prepared for his troupe’s arrival (ordering some pizza and opening a bottle of wine so he could get buzzed before they got there) he considered the conversation he’d had earlier with the Judge. It had been short as neither had much interest in the other’s company, and Olaf had acted, admittedly, as nasty as he possibly could have.

She’d first asked him to just give Violet up, and when he’d colorfully told her there was no way that would happen, she’d handed him a neatly stapled packet of paper and informed him she was confident nobility would prevail. The things in the packet—quotes from old interviews, and co-workers and neighbors—did not look so great for his character. The angle the judge seemed to be taking was that Violet, while an omega, was still a child and children had no business living in a home with a man like him. 

He had been quoted multiples times about his disinterest in raising children, and multiple neighbors had filed complaints about the borderline dangerous state of his house and yard, and the stupid Baudelaire boy had given a detailed report of of Olaf’s treatment of the siblings upon their arrival and oh, it was all very horrible. Horrible enough it sparked the perfect idea.

“What are you gonna do, Boss?” One of his troupe members asks around a slice of cheap, cheesy pizza after Olaf recounted the afternoon.

“You know what they say,” he practically sings. “Kill two kids with one stone and all that.”

The troupe nods enthusiastically. 

“If my house isn’t fit for the Baudelaire’s to live, they’ll just have to live somewhere else. Out of the goodness of my heart, I will be sending the boy and the pygmy off to the very same boarding school I attended as a boy!”

“How generous!” says one of the twins, staring at him dreamily.

“How devious,” sighs the other. 

“We’re _not_ leaving Violet.”

Olaf’s theatrical smile drops, and he rolls his eyes. “ _You_ don’t get any choice in it.”

For some inexplicable reason, the boy had come down around the same time his troupe arrived and stowed himself away in a dark corner of the dining room, scribbling in a worn notebook. Olaf tried to shoo him away but he’d refused to budge.

“What will the judge think when I tell him my guardian won’t even let me sit and write in the same room as him? If he hates children so much, how can he be fit to care for three of them?”

“Violet’s hardly a child,” Olaf scoffed, and the boy’s eyes grew hard. Before he could make another threat the doorbell rang, and Olaf, eager to get on with the evening, waved a hand. “Fine! Just stay out of our way!”

And for the most part, he has.

“If I tell Violet you’re sending us away, she won’t let you,” he insists. He’s on his feet now, and the whole troupe is watching with glinting eyes. They’re drawn to drama like sharks to blood.

“I am your guardian, you have to listen to me. And anyways, don’t you want what’s best for your sister?” He leers at the boy, standing himself. His shoes squeak against the floorboards as he pivots to face him. “Your… judgment of her, your very presence here puts her under constant stress. You will never understand what it’s like to be mated to someone, the bond we feel in our very souls!” He clutches his chest in illustration. “You want to get me away from her because you’re jealous, you can’t stand to see us together. You have no idea what being away from me would do to her. She’ll be miserable and broken and it will be all because of you.”

His troupe claps boisterously, hollering, and Olaf gives a mock bow. The boy’s face is ashen, and he is gripping his notebook so hard it bends. Olaf turns back towards his seat. 

“...Is that true?”

He pauses, and the clapping dies away. “What?”

“If they take her away… she’ll get better. When she’s older she can find someone she deserves, someone a thousand times better than you. She won’t be- broken!” 

Olaf smiles, almost pitying the boy as he tries to convince himself. “No. I’m her _mate,_ you stupid child. There can never be anyone else. If you separate us, she will never be whole again. And you know what?” He stalks to him and snatches the notebook from where he holds it like a shield. It lands on the floor a few feet away with a satisfying slap. “Maybe not right away, maybe not for many years, but she one day, your lovely big sister is going to despise you for ruining her life.”

The boy stares at him, eyes wide. 

Olaf straightens. “So consider this; You take your pygmy far away from here and get the fantastic education I know you people are horny for while your sister is safe and happy—” he draws the word out into two siblables for emphasis, “Or you can continue to stay here and make her miserable with your constant attempts to sabotage the rest of her life. Attempts that, might I add, will never be successful.”

There is a silence, broken only by the sound of Olaf’s breathing and the drip of what must be a leaky pipe somewhere in the walls, and then his troupe breaks into cheers once more.

“Go Count Olaf!”

“You tell him, handsome!”

“Three cheers for true love, hip— hip— hooray!”

The boy wipes a hand hastily across his eyes, and turns to pick up his notebook from where it landed. 

“What’s going on here?”

All eyes land on Violet, who stands at the front of the room, one hand grasping the doorframe. She’s dressed in the same blouse and overalls as before, but she is barefoot now, and her hair is tied up with a ratty black ribbon.

“Nothing, Violet. We were just talking,” the boy says tremulously. 

Violet looks at him, face impassive, and then shrugs. “Whatever.”

Olaf watches her with confusion. In truth, he hasn’t paid much attention to their sibling interactions in the past, but he would have expected her obviously shaken brother to elicit a little more reaction than that. 

The henchperson stands as Violet approaches, holding up his hands in peace. “Hi, Violet. I wanted to say sorry for scaring you last time we met. I thought I’d get the chance to apologize sooner but for someone who’s been living here for almost three months, you’re actually pretty elusive—”

“Oh, shut _up,”_ Violet growls, brushing past him.

Olaf blinks. What?

The room falls into an uneasy silence as Violet makes her way to the head of the table, mumbling under her breath something about “never stop talking” and “head is just killing me.” She grabs Olaf’s half empty wine glass and before he can say a word, downs the rest of it. 

“Violet, are you okay?” the boy asks, but she ignores him, looking around the table, muttering, “need something to drink, not enough…” She freezes, sniffs, and Olaf, tapping into the bond they share, feels her irritation transform into something dizzyingly negative and deeply frightening. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end as she turns to the hook handed man, face twisting into a snarl. 

“If you even _think_ about touching him, I’ll kill you,” she hisses, and the man glances at Olaf with terror. 

“Violet, enough! What is going on?” He strides forward, reaching for her. Just as soon as his fingers close around her arm, she jerks back, stumbling a good six feet away from him.

“Don’t touch me,” she warns, wrapping her arms around herself. She seems dazed, and keeps glancing around the room like she’s looking for someone who isn’t there.

Olaf’s lunges for her, this time managing to wrap his arms around her small body and hug her to his chest. She screams and writhes, shouting “Get your hands off of me!” She kicks his shin with her bare foot over and over, but only when she sinks her teeth into his upper arm does he let go with a shout of surprise. 

“She’s gone mad,” one of the women says in a hushed voice as Violet turns and flees the room, her pounding footfalls and gut wrenching wails echoing through the house. The troupe begins to whisper among themselves, the boy staring with blank confusion after where his sister had been. Olaf notices none of it, the gears in his mind turning as he looks down at his forearm where her cheek brushed his skin when she bit him. 

“Everyone out.”

The whispering dies. “What?” The bald headed man asks.

Olaf whirls around. “ _Everyone! Out!”_ he shouts, pointing at the door. His troupe scramble to their feet, grabbing the half empty pizza boxes and making a hasty exit. “You. Stay.” Olaf points at the hook handed man who freezes, watching the rest of the group retreat and looking very much like he’d like to be with them. “You’re taking the boy and the baby to Prufrock Preparatory school. You’ll have to fill out some paperwork when you get there. Just pretend you’re me, that incompetent vice principal won’t know the difference.”

“Now?” The man asks incredulously. 

_“Now?”_ The boy echoes. “I haven’t even decided if I’m going yet! And it’s the middle of the night, and we aren’t packed and there is something wrong with Violet! We can’t leave now!”

Olaf, distracted by the sound of Violet shouting upstairs and itching to get the house empty, gives him a nasty smile. “I know exactly what's wrong with your sister, so don’t worry about that. I am going to help her now. In fact,” Olaf backs towards the door, watching the boy’s face whiten with understanding. “I will probably be busy ‘helping’ her for the rest of the week. I suppose if you’d like to stay and listen, I can’t stop you.”

“But- I have to say goodbye,” he offers, looking conflicted. Olaf doesn’t care what about.

“Then write a letter or something. In the meantime, I,” he claps his hands together. “Am going to find my mate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment if you liked it ;)


	5. part v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this homegrown, plot free, 100% natural smut. Mind the tags—all normal warnings apply.

Violet has somehow managed to wedge herself in the sliver of space between the toilet and the wall in the en-suite bathroom. She stopped crying by the time he reached the bedroom, but the sound of her heavy breathing made her easy enough to find. 

The bathroom is clean, a fortunate side effect of her residence in the house, so Olaf isn’t worried like he once might’ve been about the grime where she sits. He is worried, however, about how her face darkens when she sees him, and the way she wraps her arms around herself, scooting even further into the shadowed corner. 

“Stay _away_ from me,” she insists, glaring at her knees. Her red face twists with displeasure as she squirms, just barely able to keep still. It is obvious now, that she is starting her heat.

Olaf can’t exactly wrap his mind around the way she is acting. This heat is too soon, for one. They normally only happen a few times a year. It has only been two months since her last one, give or take a week. And of course, she’s acting absolutely opposed to him touching her, which will certainly make fucking difficult.

“Stop! Stay away from me!” she demands as he takes a curious step closer.

The master bathroom is large and somewhat gaudy. Cool green wallpaper sports symmetrical twisting vines and blooming flowers the color of coral. Pale pink tiles outlined in yellowing grout stretch across the floor. Twin sinks with silver faucets sit above faded teal cabinets, and a large, near triangular tub sits in one corner, the porcelain toilet slotting neatly into a small alcove across from it. A glass shielded shower stands parallel to the toilet, streaked with dried product and other residue. A vase holding a bouquet of dead roses is the only decoration besides Olaf’s practically bristleless toothbrush on the counter. The whole room is reflected in the huge mirror above the sinks.

Olaf flips on the light switch by the door, glancing towards the silver fixtures above the mirror. Only one bulb flickers on. With a sigh, he contents himself to make do.

After the dining room incident, Olaf promised himself he wouldn’t push Violet to do things she didn’t want to do, so even though she smells sickly sweet as over ripe fruit, he walks stiffly over to the bathtub and sits down on the edge. She watches him, angry and panicked all at once. 

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me too,” he growls in a voice that doesn’t quite sound like his own. He’s hard in his pants. When did that happen?

“I feel like shit,” Violet declares, still sounding wholly unlike herself. Her voice shakes, and she’s panting slightly as she jerks at the collar of her shirt. He can see dampness at her neck and her temple, where her dark hair sticks to her glistening skin. 

“I can tell,” he replies, hoping she'll let him start fucking her if he’s sympathetic enough. She’s scratching now, at the skin behind her ear, brows pulling together in pain and annoyance. If she starts to hurt herself, he’ll stop her. He’s heard of omegas hurting themselves in heat before, but it is unusual if an alpha is available, which is why he can’t understand why they aren’t fucking already. 

He’d forgotten how strong the smell of her gets. It’s choking him, filling up the bathroom like an aphrodisiac fog so thick he can almost see it, nauseating cotton candy pink. 

Violet squirms again, pouting quietly. “I feel like shit,” she repeats, dragging her hands down her cheeks. Olaf pops the button of his trousers, rubbing himself through the fabric with the heel of his hand. He sort of assumed once they were in close proximity, she’d just give in and start begging like last time. He isn’t sure how long his rational brain can last, what with his doe-eyed, delicious mate dripping a puddle on the floor in the corner. He can’t see it yet, but the _smell_ …

“Stop. What are you doing? Don’t- don’t come over here!” she watches him with panic, tugging at her collar again and growing less coherent by the second. 

“I won’t,” he insists. “I’m just sitting here. Stay over there if you want.” He frees his cock with a soft sigh. He is painfully hard already, throbbing and angry red. Violet whimpers, and he pumps his cock once, twice, watching a string of clear saliva drip down her chin as she stares at him with unfocussed eyes. 

Maybe she was like this last time. He recalls the way she woke him, her screams reaching through floorboards and the ceiling, how far gone she had been when she begged for him. The door had been locked (Or maybe not, his memory of the event was rather hazy) but maybe she’d tried to stay away, same as tonight. Maybe she just needs a little more time.

He strokes himself a few more times, watching her watching him. Her eyelids are heavy now, and she’s leaning forward, mesmerized.

“You know, you don’t _have_ to stay over there,” he says, pausing to unbutton his shirt. “Those clothes look awfully itchy—Come here and I can help you take them off.” The clothes are fine, her skin has just become too sensitive for them. She keeps tugging, stretching the fabric so it touches her arms as little as possible, unable to get comfortable. One hand fidgets with the button of an overall strap, but she’s too hazy to actually figure it out. 

She shifts in place and he almost moans, over taken but the sweetness of her. Every time she moves she’s just- _more,_ like she’s kicking up a cloud of pollen to intoxicate him. He can’t even breath anymore, not with that stickiness coating the inside of his mouth and lungs.

His offer has her torn, but the longing to be free of her shirt and overalls proves too great as she slowly scoots forward, watching him with narrow-eyed distrust.

She’s forgetting something important. Her clothes are so itchy they hurt and her face is about to melt off, and _she’s forgetting something important._ Something about her alpha. Why is she hiding from her alpha? He can help her, he can make this horrible feeling go away—

No, she wants to stay away from him. She can’t remember why, but she’s sure there was a reason. It was something important. 

And he just sits there, balanced on the edge of the bathtub looking just as strong and handsome as ever with his salt-and-pepper stubble and that gleam in his eye that promises he will make her forget about all her problems.

Bursting with nervous energy, Violet tugs at warm silver buttons at the front of her outfit. Her whole body is prickling as though there are a million little ants pinching beneath her skin. She’s uncomfortably damp, sweating and clammy and her pants are sticking to the insides of her thighs. It’s a miserable experience, and her clouding mind only makes it worse.

She needs him. She thought she could manage if she told him to go away but he followed her here and her whole body is on fire now and she can’t even undo the damn buttons by herself and she _needs_ him! Her tears bring no relief, just more heat sliding down the skin of her flushed face. 

Her alpha looks concerned. Maybe if he wasn’t sitting there taunting her with his hand on his cock, she’d care about his worry a little more. 

Using her feet, she pushes herself further back, wincing at the way the side of the toilet bowl now presses painfully into her arm.

“Violet, stop acting silly and let me help you!”

He has no idea how much she longs to crawl over and climb up into his lap, the way every buzzing nerve is calling out for him, specifically. Her cunt clenches at the fleeting thought of being filled by him, and she whines, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. 

“I _can’t.”_

“Why not?”

Why not indeed. She can’t remember. Why did she come up here, anyway? Why isn’t she going to him? _Why do these goddamn clothes hurt so much?_

“At least let me help with your clothes.”

He’s trying to be sneaky. He’s going to lure her out and then bend her over the side of the bathtub and fuck her so good- and she’s not supposed to do that. It would be nice, though. She almost wants to give into his trickery. She’s certain she’ll feel a lot better with his long, thick— No no no!

Overcome with frustration, Violet curls over on herself, hands still pressed against her eyes, crying in earnest. Her shoulders shake with each sob, and her stomach seems to pulse with nausea. As soon as she finishes clawing her skin off she’s going to stick her fingers down her throat and throw up. 

A rustle and then the smell of matchsticks accompanies the darkening of her tiny corner. Violet peers up, vision blurry with tears, and Olaf is crouching over her looking rather irritated.

“Enough of this.” He reaches for her but she jerks back. The cool press of porcelain into her side does little to help the heat rolling off of her body. “Let me get you out of those clothes, you ridiculous girl.”

The clothes. She hates these awful clothes. She’s so hot now it is a wonder they haven’t caught fire yet and burned right off. She looks up at Olaf through her wet eyelashes, body taut with nervous frustration. He smells sharp as too-dark caramel and her mouth waters.

When he drops to a crouch and reaches for her again, she flinches but doesn’t stop him. Her breath shakes as he gently undoes the buttons of her overalls, already stiff nipples aching against the shirt fabric at his touch, however muted by clothing. The top of her overalls falls forward and he grabs the bottom of her shirt. His knuckles brush her stomach, and there is a shudder in her bones, something building beneath the heat. Her breath catches. It’s like the shiver before an earthquake, proof of the ineluctable outcome. Regardless of her reservations, there was only ever one way for this to end.

He drapes the shirt over the closed toilet and for a moment the awful pinprick pain fades and her shoulders relax. But the awareness of the way his eyes linger on her breasts, his hands flexing with want, picks its way up from deep within her. She releases a shaky breath. The few synapsis still firing in her brain present her with the brilliant idea to lay back on the floor in front of him and spread her legs like an offering, but she’s frozen, watching as he runs a hand through his hair, fiddling with a button on his shirt, jaw clenched as he glares determinedly away from her. 

Something wet lands on the top of her breast and it might be a tear or it might just be drool because she’s softly panting now, dizzy with her lips parted in lust.

“Please,” she whispers. Olaf's gaze swings back to her as the word tumbles from her lips again. _“Please.”_

His eyes alight. 

Next thing she knows, she’s pushed up against the bathroom wall, her overalls in a pile beside her feet. Olaf’s tongue is in her mouth, one arm under hers, hand pressed flat against the wall behind her, the other tangled tightly in her long hair. She brushes her fingertips up over his chest, wiggling her hips in an attempt to help him in discarding the rest of her clothing. Her panties fall down around her ankles. Cool relief ripples out from where he touches her, but it’s like a drop into a lake. She needs so much more.

Sliding her hands under his shirt, she bites down on his lip and he groans, pausing to yank his shirt up off over his head before finishing with her overalls. She stumbles out of them, twisting forward to lap at the scar on his collarbone, but he shoves her back against the wall. 

“Please!” she whines, trying to wiggle free of his hand again, but he growls, wrapping a hand around her neck to keep her from climbing him. 

“You will _wait,”_ he says, punctuating the statement with a warning squeeze of the hand on her throat. 

His command settles her somewhat, her biological need to please him fighting against her biological need to fuck him as soon as possible. Why he wants to wait she has no idea. They’ve already waited. She wants to stop waiting now and didn’t he too? Wasn’t that why he kept getting closer to her?

His cock is hard and thick and curves up towards his belly, twitching as he runs his thumb back and forth over her jugular. Violet stares at it, lip trembling, and he rolls his eyes. Now that she’s acting as he wants, he has relaxed, calm and in control.

Violet yelps, grasping his forearms as he slips both hands beneath her armpits. He lifts her with a grunt, sliding his knee between her legs, bracing against the wall to hold her there. The warmth and pressure of his thigh against her panties is too much and too little at once, and Violet moans pitifully as she grinds down against his leg, holding his arms for balance. Olaf laughs low and dark, and his lips find the pink scar at the base of her neck which he licks in a slow, broad stripe. 

It feels like… like the sky opened up. Like seeing in color for the first time. Like so good half her face is numb with it. Violet recalls the feeling from before, but no. It couldn’t have been. Not like _this._

She is a moaning mess in seconds, rutting against his leg because the choking, sweltering heat beneath her skin keeps crawling back and she’s desperate for relief. So desperate that she doesn’t have it in her to be embarrassed when she glances down and sees the growing wet spot on the brown fabric of his pants where her slick is starting to spread.

Olaf doesn’t seem to notice (or if he does he doesn’t care) because he’s busy teasing around her mark, kissing and licking and not quite touching it again. His firm hands massage her breasts, pushing them together and apart, twisting and pinching her rose-dark nipples. 

Soon his leg and her panties soon become too slick to provide her with an adequate friction and it occurs to Violet that he’s working her up on purpose, his touches all above her waist, teasing but not again touching any of her swollen glands. She blinks heavily, frowning, and reaches for his reddened cock. Her fingers only just brush the velvet shaft when he makes a sound between a laugh and a hiss and he is pushing her hand away, interlacing his fingers with hers and keeping the hand pinned up by her head. 

Confused, she shifts her balance and reaches with the other hand, but that too is thwarted.

 _“Wait,”_ he commands, voice laced with flowering amusement, and Violet’s eyes fill with tears.

It seems he shouldn’t have worried after all. His grumpy girl’s resolve disappeared quickly enough as she dissolved into the drooling little mess he’d been expecting. Still, he can’t help but be annoyed by her antics. She’s been in a mood all day—And she bit him! Right in front of his troupe! What kind of self respecting leader lets _that_ happen?

So, as she moans against his lips, grinding her hips most deliciously against him, he decides it might be fun to have just a little bit of payback. 

She doesn’t get the hint the first two times, too taken with his hand around her throat or his tongue on her neck. But now he’s holding her wrists in one hand, and she’s shiny-eyed again, pouting at his apparent betrayal. 

“You worried me, you know,” he murmurs, and runs his tongue along the outside of her ear. A shiver peals through her. “So emotional today. I thought something was wrong.”

“I’m-I’m sorryyy,” she whines. It’s delightful, the way she debases herself for a single flick of his fingers or stroke of his tongue, grinding against his clothed leg. Watching her near delirious expression as she continues spouting nonsensical syllables and unrelated words in an attempt to convince him, he slips a hand down between them, pushing two fingers inside of her as she slides forward.

“ _Oh oh ohhhh!”_

He savors her babbling and the molten heat of her cunt clenching around his fingers as he fucks her with them slowly. Her legs shake with need. 

“Olaf—Alpha—I need—” she cuts herself off with another moan, back bowing as she shudders with pleasure. When she looks at him again, her eyes well. “Please please please please—”

“Use your words,” he grits out, because as much fun as he’s having teasing her, his cock is throbbing painfully and if he isn’t inside her soon he’s going to go crazy.

“I—oh ah—I need—fuck me, Alpha, please—”

She’s full on sobbing now, clutching at his shoulders and trying to kiss him and he’s nearing the limit of his patience and she _did_ use her words like he asked her too and how can he say no to that? So he hooks an arm under one of her legs and—marveling always at just how supple her young body is— thrusts into her.

Violet cries out, loud and long, muscles clenching as a fresh gush of slick drools down onto his thighs. Unable to handle the height of sensations she bites down on her lip and a crimson bead of blood roles down her chin already shiny with saliva. 

The wall behind her creaks as he fucks her against it, hard and animalistic. His moans and her stattaco cries all but cover the sloppy sound of their partnering, which Olaf is certain is the best sex he’s ever had. He is pretty sure he has had this thought before, but he must have been wrong. How could anything compare to this? She is soft around him, hot and wet and tight and perfect, the smell, the sight, the _sound_ of her overwhelming his senses, hypnotizing him. She is his goddess, a blessing, filling his blood with golden ambrosia. Every one of his nerves is buzzing with a pleasure that only seems to grow.

Well beyond words now, she rakes her nails across his shoulder leaving bloody scratches in their wake. The exclamation that leaves his lips is some bastard mix of a curse and a moan and he is filled with the sudden desire to possess her completely. He wants to tear her flesh with his teeth. He wants to pry open his rib cage and force her so neatly inside his chest. Not like his old heart needs the room, anyways.

He settles instead for fucking her harder, pushing deeper, folding her leg until her thigh brushes against her shoulder and all he can hear are the noises she’s making and the slap of their skin. She’s clinging to him, tongue hanging out of her mouth as she pants, watching him with adoring, unfocused eyes. 

She climaxes first, body tightening in on itself before she screams “Alpha” loud enough his ears ring. Her head falls forward to rest on his shoulder as he continues to pound into her, her legs trembling with exhaustion in his grip. He’s so close, dripping sweat from his rut and the feverish body against him. Violet’s making tiny noises against his shoulder, letting him rock her now relaxed body. 

“You’re so good for me, Violet. So wet, so—” It is almost time, so he pulls back, “good for me, such a-ahh—good girl.” He slams into her, pushing past the slight resistance around his knot and she shrieks into his ear, hands scrambling against his chest. But he’s inside of her, all of him (blissfully) inside of her, that velvety hot softness just too much to stand. He cock pulses and he stumbles back, still holding her in his arms. His mind is just white static and a buzzing in his ears. Maybe this time he really did die, but almost certainly not because this feels like heaven which is someplace he’ll never see. Not that it matters— How could that place possibly compare to _this?_

Knotting her is intense prolonged pleasure, a waxing and waning as he just keeps coming inside of her. It is in this orgasmic haze that Olaf stumbles out of the bathroom to the bed, Violet still clinging to him and stuck on his cock. She’s crying, weeping softly against his chest, her legs crossed around his hips and hooked together at the ankles. 

He starts to speak, clears his throat, and tries again. “What is it?” he asks gruffly, petting her hair with one hand. She looks up at him, crying near silently, her cheeks glossy with tears. Even so, her eyes are half lidded, and before she speaks she yawns. 

“Alpha…” she mumbles, pressing her face against his chest again. And before he can ask again, she’s slipped out of consciousness, his knot sliding a millimeter deeper into her as her body relaxes entirely. Holding her close to him, he scoots back on the bed, maneuvering so she can lay atop of him as he himself is propped against some pillows. It’ll be a few minutes, so he prefers to be comfortable.

When she wakes again, disoriented, she tries to push off of him. It doesn’t work of course, but he’s left with a very irritated girl pouting against his chest and some disappointment as he’d hoped he’d seen the end of this lousy mood of hers.

“I want to shower,” she declares, tracing a twisted path across the faint scaring over his pectorals. Her long damp hair drapes over her shoulders, the ends pooling into curls that tickle his chest. She tucks a strand behind her ear with a huff. “It’s too _hot_ in here.”

He reaches up and runs his hands through her hair, pulling it forward again, twirling it around his fingers. “The water will hurt you,” he says. Her skin is still too sensitive. A bath… she could probably handle a bath, but the shower jets would just be painful. And, even cold, they will not help with her temperature. “You’re in heat, remember? What you really want is more fucking.”

She sneers derisively, glaring away from him, but her heartbeat picks up so he knows she isn’t entirely opposed to the idea. But then she shakes her head, trying to put distance between them again.

“That can’t be right,” she grumbles, rubbing her temple. “It’s too soon.”

It _is_ too soon, but that does nothing to change the reality of it.

“I-I tried to buy… pills. At the store,” she mumbles, sighing, the heels of her palms pressing against her eyes. She speaks slowly and deliberately, as though struggling to come up with the words. Suppressors, he thinks she means, and bristles with offence. Why on earth would she want to take suppressors when the alternative was a week of uninterrupted sex? “I wanted to take them. I had to…” she groans, and at the sound the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. “I wanted… but she wouldn’t sell them to me.” She pulls her hands away and squints up at him as though the dim light bleeding through the closed curtains is too much for her. Her lip wobbles. “She called me a whore.”

The previous thought, that he should probably find and thank the cashier, disappears, this new information going down as well as a sip from a too hot drink. Olaf’s lips pinch together, red hot emotion roaring up inside him, and his hands fall away from her hair as he balls them into fists. Violet sniffs, burying her head in her hands again, and Olaf—angry and helpless and uncomfortably aroused—does what he does best. 

“My poor little mate,” he coos, reaching for her. At this point in his life, being cruel is second nature to him. He is angry at the woman for insulting Violet and he’s angry Violet lied to him about it and he’s angry about her stupid siblings and the nosy judge across the street but it’s Violet who is in front of him and so it is her he wants to hurt. He scoots up until they are sitting, her still speared on his lap, though his knot is beginning to soften. “My poor little Violet can’t even buy groceries by herself.”

“I—”

“Why did you want suppressants anyway? You can’t hide from me. Not this.” He gestures at her where she sits watching him a mixture of thirst and irritation.

“It wasn’t—”

“She was right about you, you know.”

She doesn’t pale exactly, she’s too hot for that, but her body stiffens, eyes widening with hurt disbelief. They’re so glassy, those shiny, baby blues. She’s barely hanging on now. “You wreak of sex,” he continues, running his hands up and down her arms. “Everyone can smell it on you. The cashier. My troupe—“

“Stop!”

“—Your siblings.”

Outrage twists her face into something near unrecognizable, but he leans forward, pursing his lips, and blows. 

As he expected, it is enough to break her concentration. When her eyes open they are unfocused and glossed over. She pants once, and he catches a glimpse of the shiny pink of her tongue pushing forward over her bottom teeth.

“I’m…” she swallows, pants again, rubs her eyes. “Alpha…I…”

He smiles. “I know.”

He pushes her back onto the bed and she claws at his chest, straining her neck to try and bite at his collarbone. She’s unbearably uncomfortable, could crawl out of her own skin. This sticky, prickly, _pressure_ \- it’s too much. She needs to cool down. She needs to take her clothes off. 

She scratches at her arms, crying out in guttural distress when she realizes she’s already undressed. The embroidered coverlet beneath her scrapes against her back and she tries to sit up, but Olaf pushes her back down, pinning her wrists beside her head. The coverlet is touching her arms too, then, and he laughs when she hisses trying to twist away. He’s not inside of her anymore and some of his come is dripping out of her and that feels awful too and she hates him, hates this, and he kisses her neck and she starts to gasp. 

“You’re all mine, Violet, my little whore.” He nips at her ear as she clings to him, making those little fluttery noises from the back of her throat. One hand roves over her breasts, pinching and rolling and teasing, propped up on one forearm. She mewls, pushing her chest up into his hand. “Just like a _bitch_ ,” he croons, and the tiny part of her still present enough to think knows he’s right because she didn’t even realize she started rutting against him again, grinding her swollen cunt against his cock like some stupid, mindless _dog_ and God, she wants him.

“Please—ahh—please fuck me,” she begs, drawing her teeth over the scar she’d left on him their first time, and he shudders, groaning, his head dropping forward. “I’m all yours, _please—_ ”

And he obliges her as she is certain he will always oblige her because he is her one and only mate. White petals of pleasure unfurl like light, like peace, finally, and her vision spots and she doesn’t realize she is screaming until his tongue is in her mouth, his teeth clacking violently against hers.

This position—him on top of her, caging her in— does not afford him nearly the depth their romp against the bathroom wall did, but it doesn’t matter at all because hitting something inside of her just right and the tears sliding down her cheeks aren’t from pain or frustration but strangely she wants pain too. She can’t speak so claws at him, biting his lip hard enough she tastes his blood (salty, sweet, dizzyingly addictive) and he seem to understand because he grabs her leg, bending it up towards her shoulder so he can fuck his knot into her, and sucks a path down her neck that leaves bouquets of purple bruises in its wake.

When he bites her mate mark—an unnecessary but deeply erotic gesture—every inch of her body blooms with pleasure and her back arches off the bed, her hands fisting the coverlet as she convulses beneath him, lips parted in a silent scream. He must climax too, because he collapses against her trembling body. After a moment, he lifts her head to look at her, and his lips and teeth are smeared with blood when he smiles. He wriggles an arm beneath her, lifting her with him as he rolls over and scoots back against the pillows, breathing heavy. His face twitches as his cock spasms inside her again, and she yawns, fighting to stay awake. Her whole is tingling like she’s made of glitter and soft and all things good. 

Olaf, calm again in the interlude, reaches down to the place where they are connected, running his fingers through the sticky mess. He holds his hand up to the light examining it with a strangely pensive expression, before brushing his fingers across her lips. He watches, expressionless, her as she licks them, tasting the salty residue. He rubs the rest into her bloody matemark, and she sighs, her head dropping to the side to bear it to him more fully. When he is satisfied, his hand dips between them again, sending a trill of muted pleasure up her spine, and he repeats the process with the smaller scent glands on her wrist. 

The smooth circular sensation of his rubbing the mixture of cum and slick into her skin is too soothing. It should disgust her but the possessive action is reassuring and she embraces the comfort, slipping closer and closer to sleep. Jerking her head up each time it lolls forward becomes more and more difficult. She doesn’t remember Olaf doing anything like this last time, but wants to stay awake for the strange, intimate ritual. 

_I’m going to smell like him forever,_ she thinks, yawning again. This time, unable to keep her eyes open, she slumps against his chest. The next thing she’s aware of is his hands in her hair, sweat prickling the back of her neck as she opens her eyes, squinting at the bedroom around her, unsure where she is or when she got there. She shifts, frowning at the tacky sensation of her thighs peeling apart, and tries to push Olaf away from her. He laughs. She winces. Her head beats with slow pulsing aches, and she rubs uselessly at her eyes, smacking her lips to try and moisten her dry mouth.

After a moment of careful consideration—Olaf watching her with an amused twinkle in his eyes— she grimaces.

“I feel like shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my day. I'll probably be updating again real soon. Hope you enjoyed <3


	6. part vi

Mornings are Violet’s favorite time of day. She likes the quietness, the slow of her heartbeat in the time when no one else is yet awake. When she opens her eyes to see soft light filtering through the curtains, listening to the soft, gritty sound of Olaf snoring beside her, she is content in a way she didn’t know she could be.

Rolling over, she assesses the soreness of her body. Every part of her aches. Unlike last time, she can remember the past week well enough, though the memories are hazy and warped like the pavement on a hot day. It’s been six… seven days? She isn’t sure.

Gently as she’s able, Violet shimmies the blanket down towards the base of the bed. Olaf is naked, splayed comfortably with one hand across his chest and the other beneath the pillow under his head. Violet was surprised to wake up in one of his t-shirts. It’s white and stained but the fact that Olaf made sure to put something on her before passing out himself makes her warm and fuzzy inside. She hopes he’ll appreciate her thank-you gift. 

Since becoming mated, Olaf and she have a sort of nonverbal “touch me when you please” agreement. Certain things have become obvious when they spend time together, like Violet’s discomfort with public displays of affection (especially when it becomes _more_ than just affection) and Olaf’s hatred being tickled and odd sensitivity about the strange tattoo on his ankle (he gets annoyed every time she presses him about it.) So while she’s a little apprehensive, Violet settles herself between sleeping Olaf’s legs. 

He doesn’t stir. He is so peaceful when he is asleep. He is always acting when he is awake. He thinks she won’t notice, but it’s hard to miss the tenseness underneath the facade he creates, or the way he checks over his shoulder anytime his back is exposed.

The remnants of her heat are bitten and scratched across his chest, still angry red, though they’re already blending with the many faded scars he bears. Whenever she asks him where he got them from he scoffs and pats her head. She’s confident he’ll tell her about it one day, though. It’s like he said: They can’t keep secrets from each other.

Violet leans forward, the mattress shifting with a low creak, settling onto her belly. His dick lays against one thigh, soft and pink and, in her opinion, kind of cute. She wraps her hands around it and it twitches against her palms, silky smooth. Olaf sighs in his sleep above her. Well, he won’t be sleeping for long.

Smiling to herself, Violet continues to stroke him until he stiffens in her hands, deepening in color. A bead of precum drips down the underside of the rosy head, and Violet opens her mouth, lapping at him. He tastes sort of salty but not at all unpleasant, and she slides her tongue downwards, following a vein. The man groans, one leg rolling to the side, but does not wake.

Violet continues on with merry persistence. Her tongue swirls clumsily as she bobs her head up and down, attempting to find a rhythm. It is a little harder than she thought it would be, finding time to breathe and suck and move her tongue all at once, but she manages to figure it out fast enough. She is a smart girl, after all.

Her hands aren’t still either, brushing down through the trail of hair that begins beneath his naval and massaging over his knot and balls. She’s gentle and slow in all her movements, until he’s fully erect and it becomes difficult to take all of him inside of her mouth. She tries her best, though, choking only a little when the head of his cock bumps the back of her throat.

“Ugnh…” Olaf shifts, hips jerking, and Violet tries again, holding her breath and squeezing her eyes closed as she bobs down. This time she manages to last for longer before she pulls away to breathe. Unsure how long oral sex typically takes, she finds a comfortable pace and lets her mind wander. She is warm and excited and- happy! Contentment hums beneath her skin so sweetly she isn’t sure what to do with herself. She keeps her tongue busy, hands still moving assuredly over his warm skin.

“Unghh...Violet…?” Olaf groans, eyelids fluttering before flying wide. “What- Jesus!” He’s half sitting, staring at her with unguarded shock. Violet giggles around his dick, running her hands over the tops of his thighs in an attempt to smooth him. “Jesus,” he mutters again, shoulders relaxing. His head falls back against the pillows and he groans again, this time with pleasure. 

He climaxes soon, a ripple of contractions through his body as he spills herself against the back of her tongue. Violet sputters, swallowing what’s already sliding down the back of her throat as the rest drips down her chin. She wipes it away with the back of her hand, determined to be more prepared next time.

“Good morning,” she says, sitting up and smiling innocently at him. 

Olaf snorts. “Hell of a thing to wake up to,” he retorts.

She blushes. “I’m glad you liked it.” It’s a little late to be bashful, but she crosses her arms over her chest, exposed under his gaze. 

Olaf grins and sits up, reaching for her. His hands and lips warm as he kisses her, pushing her down beneath him. Her stomach flutters as his lips trail down her neck. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, giggling when he licks a long stripe across her stomach. 

He guides her legs apart, lifting one up to rest against his shoulder. Then he licks her again in a place _far_ more sensitive, and she has her answer.

Violet really likes oral sex, it turns out. She likes the expression Olaf made as she sucked him off and she likes being in control. It isn’t a position she has found herself in often in recent months. And of course she likes when he goes down on her, too. Her legs are still shaking when she dresses, humming a cheerful tune to herself, relaxed down to her bones. Olaf headed downstairs first with the promise to scrounge up some breakfast for the both of them. She doesn’t imagine he’s going to find much. 

Still feeling cheeky, she puts on a different one of his shirts, a white silk button down over a pair of high-waisted shorts, and flounces downstairs to meet him. He gasps when he sees her and she twirls around in the doorway, the shirt tails fluttering out around her. 

“Thief!” he declares, outraged. She shrieks as he chases her around the kitchen island, grabbing her around the waist and tickling her until she can barely breath when she lets him catch her. 

As she suspected, not much food survived their week-long dalliance so they pour coffee and sugar over some stale wheat cereal from the pantry and make a meal of it. Violet has some reservations about drinking coffee, as she remembers Klaus telling her it stunts development in children, but she is so light and happy she can’t find it in her to care. And, as Olaf points out, she isn’t a child anymore, now is she? So she eats the strange dish and ignores the jittering in her limbs afterwards.

“I should probably go visit Klaus and Sunny,” she says, swinging her legs back and forth. Her heels bump against the wooden cabinet below. Olaf doesn’t answer, stilling as he stares out the dusty window panes of the back door. “I’m sure they’re worried like last time, and—” She winces. “I was so rude! I’ll have to apologize to your troop, too. Oh, I’m so embarrassed!” She frets, tapping her fingers against her cheeks. 

Olaf clears his throat, robotically digging around in the pocket of his coat. He was wearing it when she came down. It looks good on him, deep green and mysterious.

He holds out a folded piece of paper to her and swallows. “This is for, uh, for you.” He won’t meet her eyes.

As she takes the letter, the atmosphere changes, something bitter and dark and thick climbing up the back of her throat. His throat. The hair on the back of her neck prickles and her curiosity is eclipsed by her apprehension. Her coffee heightened mood is no longer so innocent, her heart pounding inside the cage of her chest.

  
  


Olaf fights the urge to stand up and pace as Violet reads over the crumpled letter in her hands. He found it on the kitchen counter when he first came downstairs. He read it, of course, and the smoldering satisfaction of his so far spectacular morning evaporated. 

Violet finishes and sets the letter in her lap. 

“I don’t understand,” she says, staring at it. “Klaus and Sunny… left?”

Olaf’s heart sinks, but he tries not to let it show on his face. “It’s a good school,” he starts, hoping to appeal to the maternal protectiveness he knows she has. “They will be safe and they will receive a great education—”

“When are they coming back?” she demands, eyes snapping towards him.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Well… next summer. Or for the holidays.” 

Violet gapes. With her wide eyes and lips parted in a stunned ‘O,’ she reminds him of one of the goldfish he’d longed after in the pet store window as a child. Her shock doesn’t last though and her eyes harden. “This was because of you. Because you didn't want them here,” she accuses, scooting away from him.

He takes a split second to long to answer—she is right, after all— and she shatters.

“How could you do this?” she shouts, slipping off the counter. Tears stream down her face as her feet thud against the floor. “How _dare_ you send them away?”

Olaf raises his hands in uneasy surrender. “It’s a good school,” he repeats. “The boy wanted to go. I don’t get why you’re so angry about it.” Her furry and devastation are sweltering and acidic, corroding his resolve. “They need to go to school somewhere, don’t they?”

“They _need_ to be with _me!_ ” she wails, and swiping her hand harshly across her eyes, dashes off. The letter flutters towards the floor. Olaf stands from the counter, catching it before it lands. He shoves it into his pocket, ignoring the crunch of the paper as it crumples.

“Is this still a hormone thing?” He asks when he finds her in their bedroom ( _their_ bedroom—there is a flash of pride) huddled beneath the blankets on the bed. She’s shaking with sobs, and curls up tighter when she hears him approach. “I thought you’d be happy for them. School’s prestigious and all that.”

She is silent for a moment and he isn't sure she is going to answer. Nervous energy builds in him, bubbling up and up like a shaken soda can until he might explode. As he opens his mouth—resigned to the fact he’s going to have to drive all day to bring the stupid brats back now—she wiggles out of her cocoon. Her cheeks are red and tear streaked, and she is absolutely furious.

“ _I’m_ supposed to look after them!” she hisses. “I promised I would keep them safe! How can I do that if they’re off God-knows where?”

The duvet crinkles softly as Olaf sits beside the lump that is Violet, brow furrowed in confusion. “Promised who?”

She pales and her shoulders hunch as she retracts into herself, curling away like some shy fern. Silence sinks between them, and he almost asks again before she answers.

“My parents,” she whispers, and her face crumples.

He comforts her before he realizes he is doing it, stroking her hair and her arms. The tears he kisses from her cheeks are replaced again and again as she sobs.

“Why are you crying? Tell me what’s wrong?” He is frenetic with worry. He prefers physical upsets, things he can break or burn. 

Violet turns her head and shifts the blankets higher on her shoulders, hugging them around her like a shroud and resentment stings him. Why won’t she let him comfort her? But he keeps quiet and lets her cry until she is gasping. And when she’s ready, with an expression of pure devastation, she tells him, “I want them back.”

He tilts his head, squinting against the midmorning sun hitting his eye through the slatted window. “Who?” he asks. “Your siblings? We’ll get them. It’s fine.”

She sniffles and shakes her head, lip wobbling. Her voice breaks as she speaks. “My parents. I-I want my parents.”

He is falling. Pain like a bell rings through his chest, ragged and bloody as ever. Afront roars in his head at the memory of the happy dead couple who had betrayed him all those years ago. Violet must see the shift in his expression because her face screws up and she begins to wail again, this time pulling the blankets back over her to make a very miserable lump in the center of the bed. 

It makes sense. Olaf remembers when his parents were murdered, his anger and his grief. He still carries it, festering in a knot above his stomach, right where his rib cage splits. And Violet is so soft and younger than he was. And with so much weight on her shoulders. She had no bodies and no funeral— just herself and two siblings she’d promised to mother. No time to grieve. Even he had time to grieve. 

He can hardly believe she’s made it this long without outburst. A confusing mixture of hatred and pity roil his stomach but still his mate is crying so he pulls her onto his lap, arranging all her awkward teenage limbs and murmuring to her in soothing tones as he runs his fingers up and down her back. Every time she takes a deep breath like she might finally stop, her face scrunches up and she begins again with a fresh wave of tears. 

“You’ll be okay,” he tells her, unsure what else to do. “Let it go.” He can taste her grief for Beatrice and Bertrand poisoning him, leaching through their shared bond though he closes himself off from it as best he can. 

Her crying does start to subside eventually, and her eyelids hang heavy and she rubs her palms across her swollen face. 

“Will Klaus and Sunny be okay at that school?” she asks hoarsely, looking up at him through wet lashes. Her eyes are bloodshot and oh-so tired.

“Yes. The dorms are luxurious—fit for royalty. There’s all kinds of exotic birds flying around and what have you. Oh, and a huge library. I’m sure it’s perfect for them.”

The mention of birds confuses her, but when he mentions a library, she relaxes. “Can we visit them?”

“Yes,” he replies, already inventing scenarios to prevent such visits from occurring.

She snuggles against him and yawns, exhausted from her emotional outburst. “Thank you for thinking of their education,” she says, words muffled by his coat. “Just… please ask me next time you- you make a big decision.” 

He nods, giving a grunt of affirmation, and continues to stroke her hair.

“Do they have a- a nursery program? For Sunny?”

“Of course,” he lies. “They’ll both be fine.” And they probably will be, until he can come up with some sort of plan to deal with them permanently. He is confident that Violet would choose him over anyone else should the situation arise, but he has no interest in sharing her affections. 

“I have some good news, too,” he says, and she wriggles around to look up at him. 

“Good news?” 

  
  


Olaf, horrible, evil man, will not indulge Violet’s curiosity. 

“I’ll tell you at dinner,” he promises.

“You insufferable—Dinner?”

“Oh yes, did I tell you?” His eyes sparkle with mischief. “I’m taking you out tonight.”

Violet can’t pout after that. They’ve never been out together before, aside from the visits to Justice Strauss’s house and to court the once. When Olaf gifts her a new dress in a shiny silver box with a bright red ribbon and gives her two hours to get herself ready, Violet is vibrating with excitement. She looks a mess, face red and swollen and tear-streaked, so she begins to prepare as soon as he closes the door behind him.

The first order of business is getting clean. She showers and dries her hair before braiding it into two plaits which twist together in a knot at the back of her head. The bruising on her neck and chest as well as the redness around her eyes are hidden easily enough with some concealer and powder she borrows from Olaf’s side of the cabinets. She wishes she had some makeup or perfume of her own to wear but she hadn't bought any. There had been no need before now. 

The dress Olaf gave her is huge and jaw droppingly spectacular. Violet is speechless, staring at herself in the mirror. She twirls the skirt lightly. She can't believe it's _her._

The dress is floor length, silk organza in bright crimson red. The puffed sleeves feed into the low neckline which shows off a long neck and plenty of collarbone. The bodice tightens below her breasts, hugging her waist before it flares out into a simply magnificent skirt at her hips, layer upon layer of ruffled organza spilling down to the floor. The low red heels she found also inside the box pinch her toes, but they match so well she does not care.

She touches her heart, watching her reflection do the same, eyes wide. Though the dress—the _gown_ —fits her near perfectly, she can't help but feel like she's playing dress up. A dress like this is too extravagant for her. It reminds her of something her mother would have worn.

She gives the skirt another twirl and tries a smile. Two hours is almost up, she can't put Olaf off much longer. “Looking good!” she says, winking at herself in the mirror. The gesture is awkward and juvenile, but it makes her feel better. She laughs under her breath, rubbing her wrists together in comfort, and heads downstairs without another word. Olaf is already waiting for her, leaning against the long couch and scribbling something on the morning paper. When she appears he drops it onto the side table and Violet sees he has accessorized some local politician’s face with glasses, devil horns, and a long twisted mustache. 

"Wow," he says, eyes sweeping up her body. "Wow.”

Her cheeks heat and she hides her hands in the voluptuous skirt. "Dress look as good as you thought it would?" she asks shyly. 

He's nodding already. "Yes. Better. You look beautiful." He looks good too, having changed into the fanciest outfit she's seen him in yet. The suit is clean and ink black, shining in the low light. His shoes are clean too, and he wears a silky red tie that matches Violet. It's like a tag of ownership telling the whole world he belongs to her. The idea reassures her.

_I'm a mated woman! I am perfectly mature enough to wear any dress I'd like!_

“Ready to go?” she asks, bouncing in front of him. Her excitement has returned full force. She’s never been on a date before. 

He swoops forward, arms wrapping around her waist as he plants a wet kiss against her lips. She lets her eyes fall closed, leaning into him, breathless when he pulls away.

He smiles at her and she's glad she isn't wearing any lipstick.

“Now I am.”

One of the men from Olaf's troupe drives, so Olaf sits in the back seat with her. Luckily it isn't the hook-handed man, whose very presence puts Violet on edge. He’s an omega too, she’s sure of it, and something about the look in his eyes, the smell of him… well, she'd be happy if he never worked with her mate again!

They don't talk. Violet is still exhausted from her heat and the emotional ups and down of the day and Olaf is content to play with her fingers as she dozes, head resting against his shoulder. By the time she wakes, the sky outside is burning red, shining like fire across the windows of the many towering buildings around them.

"Are we there?" she asks, her voice still scratchy sweet with sleep. 

Olaf nods, glancing out the window at the currently stopped traffic around them, a sea of cars and yellow taxi cabs. His leg bounces and he rolls his fingers against the car door handle in quick, successive taps.

"Is everything okay," Violet asks at the same time he leans forward and grabs the driver's shoulder, saying, "We're getting out here."

Before either can protest, Olaf grabs Violet's arm and pushes the door open, slipping out and pulling her after him. She stumbles squinting against the headlights around them as Olaf kicks the car door shut. "Come on!" he shouts. Horns around them blare as the cars at the front of the standstill begin to roll forward, and Olaf yanks Violet along as the two weave between cars to the sidewalk. 

"That was dangerous!" Violet gasps, slightly winded, gazing out of the four lanes they just traversed. 

Olaf shrugs and straightens his jacket. "Don’t be so uptight. It’s not like there is any place to park, anyway.” It is true, unless they wanted to walk from the parking garage somewhere getting out while the cars were stopped was the easiest option.

She sighs, smoothing out her skirt. She’s glad the heels she’s wearing are low, or she almost certainly would have tripped over the curb. "This restaurant better be worth it." 

It is. The restaurant, named “La Gueule de Loup,” and it's without a doubt the fanciest place Violet has ever been. And that is saying a lot because her parents took her siblings and her to plenty of high end venues. The building itself is not huge in terms of floorspace, but the ceiling stretches high above them in glass domes hung with glimmering, crystalline chandeliers giving it a spacious air. People decked out in formal wear sit at round tables around the room, chatting over glasses of wine and dishes of food like tiny modern art pieces. Violet runs a finger over the soft white table cloth over their own table, glancing down at herself nervously. She understands now why Olaf gave her such a fancy dress. 

"Do you like it?" 

Apparently he had called ahead of time to make a reservation, something that strikes Violet as wildly out of character for him, but she isn’t complaining. It is their first date after all. "It's beautiful." She looks around them once more. At the far left of the room on a raised platform is a string quartet, who fill the space with silky music, loud enough to be heard but not to disturb. "Can you really afford a place like this?"

She doesn't mean it as an insult, it's only a place like this must be expensive and she feels guilty he's doing it for _her,_ but irritation flickers across his face. He hides it by taking a sip of deep red wine from his glass. Violet can't remember the name of it, still too awed by the surroundings to pay attention when he'd ordered, but she does remember the slight widening of the waiter's eyes and his affirmation of, "Splendid taste, sir." Violet has a glass too, and it is without a doubt the best wine she'd ever tasted. Not that she has any expertise in the subject.

"Don't you worry your pretty head about what I can and can't afford," he says, leaning back in his chair. Violet flushes, chastised, and takes a slow sip of her wine. She should have known better than to ask. 

Before she can dig herself into a deeper hole, the waiter approaches again. "Have you decided what you'd like to order?" he asks.

"Hm." Olaf makes a show of looking over the menu again while the waiter stands patiently, hands clasped. "I'll have the Alouettes sans Tête.” 

Violet smiles to herself at the way he confidently mispronounces the name of the French dish. "I'd like Confit de Canard, please," she says, putting the menu down. She's never tried duck before, but it seems like a good night to be daring.

Only, the waiter does not acknowledge her order, does not so much turn to glance in her direction. Instead he smiles at Olaf, lips tight. "And for your… companion, Sir?"

Violet’s throat tightens and she blinks over the blood rushing in her ears. She glances at Olaf, unsure if she did something wrong, but he is confused as well. 

"She'll have… Confit de Canard?" he says, and they both watch the waiter leave in awkward silence. Violet rubs her wrists against each other, wondering what on earth she could have done to offend the waiter enough he’d ignore her. 

Olaf refills her glass from the dark bottle in the center of the table. "Drink," he urges, and she does, still fretting too much to appreciate the sweet smoothness of it. 

The rest of dinner goes smoothly enough. The chef decides which other courses will go best with the entrée ordered, and she and Olaf chat over each dish brought out to them. They are all as strange and delicious as she could have hoped. She enjoys the food and the music and Olaf's playful ribbing enough to push the off-putting encounter to the back of her mind and enjoy herself (The wine helps). It is more than she possibly could have asked for in a first date. She feels more grown up than she ever has, even when Olaf makes her laugh so hard the couple at the nearest table glares their way. 

"Was the meal to your liking, Sir?" asks the waiter, appearing like some malevolent spectre as Olaf pushes his plate away from him. While he'd joked about the small sizes of each course of their meal, it all had been delicious and filling. 

"Yeah, it was good," Olaf replies, stretching. "You have deserts here?"

"Of course, Sir. One moment." He returns with black and gold menus near identical to the originals and places them on the table. Violet picks it up, skimming the options, each more decadent than the last. She opens her mouth to ask for a recommendation when the icy weight of the waiter's gaze settles on her. She pauses. He's glaring at her face— no at her neck, at her… 

Violet stiffens, suddenly naked, and slaps a hand over her mate scar, her cheeks reddening. Covering the mate mark had never crossed her mind. She loved her mark. The dress was so low on her shoulders… Olaf had bought her this dress. Had he known? She shouldn't have worn her hair up. She should’ve brought a shawl. 

In school her classmates and occasionally her teachers had been less than kind about her designation but she'd never thought- not in place like this—

"I want the tiramisu." Olaf says the word wrong, emphasizing the second syllable, but Violet is too busy swimming in her own head to correct him. "Violet? You want anything?"

It's all she can do to shake her head, mumble, "I'm full, thank you," in the most disappointingly meek voice she's ever heard. She wants to jump up and yell at the man, or better yet, for Olaf to do it for her. But maybe she's in the wrong. Maybe she should have covered up. She doesn't know, doesn't understand why it would matter. 

She dwells on this, circling back and around to the look in the waiter's eyes, to the rude woman at the grocery store, to "whiny slut," to her backpack in the creak behind the school after gym class, to the nasty words carved into her desk. She can't hear the music from the quartet anymore, doesn't listen as Olaf talks animatedly to her but mostly to himself. 

By the time he finishes his desert with a scrape of his fork and a loud belch, Violet is shaking in her seat, one hand still clasped over her mark and the other twisted in her the organza of her skirt. Her leg bounces beneath the table. She's sweating and cold and more than anything she wants to go home. 

"Violet?" she glances up at Olaf, who is tapping his fingers along the edge of the table, watching her with an expectant expression.

"Sorry?" she asks, straightening in her seat. 

"No no, I just-" he breathes out, chest caving. "Read this." He hands her an opened envelope and her pulse quickens, recalling his earlier promise. Good news. Good news, he'd said. 

She opens it with still shaking fingers, pulling out a trifold packet of stark white paper, printed with official looking black letters. It is crinkled in the middle, as if he'd gripped it too hard and tried to straighten it out again. 

_"Dear Count Olaf and Violet Baudelaire,_

_Congratulations. I am pleased to inform you that your mate license has been accepted. When this letter reaches you..."_

Violet stops, blinks, and rereads the line. 

Accepted. It's been accepted!

There are three other pages of details and drivel and she does not care one bit about them as her eyes jerk up to Olaf for confirmation. Only, he's not sitting across from her anymore, he's kneeling beside her chair, tense with anticipation.

Violet stands, chair pushed back with a screech. The letter drops to the table. Someone gasps, and someone else, and in a gradient the room silences into the sound of the strings and Violet's own heartbeat. 

"This— You're—" Her mouth is too dry. Her throat is too tight.

His eyes twinkle, and he pulls a tiny black box out of his pocket. "So, what do you say? Be my Countess?"

She gapes at him, lips parted in shock, and he cups a hand beside his mouth conspiratorially as the rest of the room holds their breath. "It's just a formality," he whispers. "You saw the paper. You're stuck with me now, good girl."

"She's so happy she can't even speak!" someone whispers loudly. 

Violet can't speak. She can't breath. Her blood is ice, fragile and fractal. She could shatter at any moment. Her mind is blank, stitching like a stuck record. Countess? She's his mate. She's ecstatic to be his mate. It's everything she never knew she wanted. But marriage. A ring? It's the same isn't it? But it's not. She’s too young to get married! She’s not ready, she’s— 

"Y-yes," she chokes, because what other answer is there? "Yes." And Olaf is sliding a ring she hasn't yet seen onto her finger and sweeping her back into the most romantic kiss she's ever had. 

The kiss relieves her panic slightly, the warmth of his hands and his lips her only stability in the moment. The room erupts into applause. Someone whistles. Violet grips Olaf tighter. She doesn't let go of his arm as he talks to the man by the door—paying, maybe— nor as he leads her out into the sparkling indigo night, the bustle of people and cars, each oblivious to the ring tight around her finger. 

Somehow she hears him when he asks her, "Do you like it?" 

The car pulls up in front of them. Violet thinks the driver is different but she can't remember. Her head buzzes. 

She looks at the ring, a thin gold band inlaid with what must be diamonds, twinkling in the golden glow of the street lamps. It is a very distinguished ring. It cannot possibly belong to her.

"It is beautiful," she says, and lets go of him, stepping forward to open the car door. She lifts her skirt and hops inside, scooting across to the far seat. Her ears won't stop ringing. Olaf ducks in the car beside her. He's always so measured, every move confident and predatory. She's happy he is hers. She is! She is.

She reaches for his hand and sees a similar gold ring upon his own finger and a strange calm rolls in, like the impenetrable fog above a murky slough. "I love you," she murmurs, and realizes as his eyes widen ever so slightly that she's never told him before. They’ve been mated for nearly three months, how can she have never told him before? She leans closer, practically on his lap, and runs her hands up the lapels of his jacket, the distance between their faces shortening. "I love you."

He stares at her with an expression she's never seen on him. It's painfully raw, but only for a moment and he's pressing his lips to hers. His mouth tastes like espresso and chocolate and this time it is Violet's turn to be hungry. "What did I do to deserve you?" he mutters, desperate, hands trying in vain to find a way under the bodice of her dress. "There is no one like you, Violet."

They make love that night. Violet—exhausted, sore, and still impossibly calm— leaves the ring on when she sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my day <3\. Two more chapters to go!!! I hope you're enjoying


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